Certainty
by Violetrose25
Summary: Clint/OC. Clint always knew he'd end up with a redhead. It was his certainty, the one detail he knew about his soul mate. He thought it was Natasha, had for years, but she fell in love with Bruce Banner. And it crushed him. Now he's met a wonderful woman named Joyce... But she's not the redhead he's looking for. (More details inside. M for smut. I own nothing. Slight AU.) ON HIATUS
1. Chapter 1

**So, this is a universe in which everybody knows a small detail about their soulmate. I know the "soul mate" thing has been done before, but here's my take on it. It seems there's always something definite about these types of stories. Like they'll know it's the one by the touch of their hand or it's written down somewhere... I like the idea that's there's an aspect of uncertainty to it. You get a clue, but when it gets down to it, one has to go with their gut.**

**Anyway I'm rambling... hope you all enjoy!**

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><p>Clint always knew that he was going to end up with a redhead. That was his certainty. Everybody had one, no matter where or who they were. Just a vague clue about their soul mate. And the funny thing was that gender didn't matter. Most people's certainties apply to both men and women. So you don't even get <em>that<em> much information! The universe has a sick sense of humor.

But Clint considered himself lucky. He was sure that his certainty belonged to Natahsa Romanoff, his partner in Shield. The feisty Russian who never had faith in love, even with her certainty. That certainty being that her soul mate would save her life.

Clint had been waiting patiently for years, hoping she'd see that he was the one. Clint had made a different call, after all. But she never had. She still believed love was for children, and certainties were some kind of sick joke.

... Then New York happened. And she met Dr. Bruce Banner, who saved her from a deadly infection caused by one of those...things... with their disgusting, alien-disease ravaged mouths. Needless to say, Dr. Banners' certainty was that his soul mate wouldn't believe in love. Of fucking course, right?

Now here he was, the lonely archer, still pining over that one redhead. That redhead who's been madly in love with the good doctor for about six months now. She'd changed completely! It'd been torture, really, especially since all the Avengers now lived in Stark Tower. If they weren't training, working, or sleeping, the two would be all over each other. Groping, kissing... mornings when Natasha would walk around with Bruce's shirts on...

Clint was about to kill somebody. He had to get out. The archer took the elevator down, planning on going to Starbucks. Because if there was one thing that a person could count on, it was coffee. And as everybody over the age of thirteen knows, coffee powers the entire adult world. Luckily he didn't run into anybody on the way down, and walked speedily into the crowd. The walk wasn't far, only ten blocks, though the snow wasn't helping. December was a bitch in New York.

Finally he reached the coffee shop, that familiar green logo inviting him in. Clint obliged, all but sprinting into the warmth. The scent of peppermint mocha lattes and hot chocolate permeated the air. Ah, home. Immediately Clint got in line, not wanting to wait an hour for a damn drink! It was crowded in here, but it's not like that was anything new. Starbucks had that ability to fill every seat in and out of the shop.

Sometimes he was convinced that the real evil didn't lie within terrorist groups like Hydra or Al Queda, no. REAL evil came from corporations like Starbucks, plotting to take over the world with their shops incessantly popping up everywhere like a goddamn virus. Some weird conspiracy that everybody else was oblivious to. Except Clint Barton.

Not like that stopped the assassin from buying the coffee like everybody else.

He ordered a caramel latte, waited, and snagged the last available table. He smiled into the drink as people began complaining, whining about the cold and the crowds and the pretentious douchebags just sitting there with their laptops, pretending to be writers, not actually drinking anything. Clint found this extremely amusing. That was another reason he loved it here. People were just so entertaining.

And then... she walked in. A bright purple coat immediately caught Clint's attention. A woman was standing there, baggy jeans and boots and a heavy knit black scarf. Her hands were covered by baby blue gloves. There was a hat covering her hair, one with the little tassels on the sides and a fur ball on top. Neon. Fucking. Yellow. She had pale skin, freckles dusting her cheeks. Eyes as blue as her gloves, and full lips. Well... not Natasha full... but full. Bow-shaped.

Once she got in line, Clint went back to drowning his sorrows in coffee. It sounds strange, yes, but it was better than getting shit-faced twenty four hours a day. Besides, what if he was called on duty? How would THAT fly with Coulson?!

A few minutes later, Clint heard the sound of a clearing throat. He looked up. There she was.

"Hi, uh... can I sit with you? This place is crowded as fuck and there aren't any seats left."

Clint shrugged. "Go for it."

The woman plopped down in the opposing seat.

"Thanks. So... my name's Joyce. Joyce Rivers."

Before Clint could even get a word in, Joyce spoke:

"Swear to God, no relation. What's your name, Hawkeye?"

The archer looked up, incredibly surprised. "Huh? How did you know about that?!"

"You don't exactly wear a mask, y'know. Plus this is the 21st century, nothing is sacred. The power of the Internet!" She said dramatically.

"Still... I didn't think I was the most... popular Avenger. You don't exactly see kids running around with Hawkeye action figures."

Joyce giggled. "Well exactly, KIDS. Women love you. The Hawkeye Initiative is going strong."

"The WHAT?"

Her eyes darted back and forth. "Nothing." She quickly changed the subject. "So, what's a superhero doing sitting in a coffee shop? Shouldn't you be off fighting crime, robbing the rich to give to the poor?"

"That's Robinhood, for one."

She smiled. "I know, I'm teasing."

"-And secondly, despite what most people may think, us superhero's lead normal lives. I mean what do you people think we do all day?!"

Joyce took a sip of her drink. "Have giant, mostly homosexual orgies."

Clint stopped mid-sip. "Uh..."

"Internet. Looked up message boards about you all out of boredom."

"Now I'm scared." The hero stated earnestly.

"You should be, us civilians can be some sick-minded motherfuckers." She replied, agreeing. "However, that doesn't answer my question."

"Your question?"

"What's your name?" Josie clarified.

"Oh! Uh... Clint. Clint Barton." The archer was a bit embarrassed by his own stupidity.

"Clint Barton. Huh. So is it true that you crawl around in the vents of Stark Tower?"

The archer set his drink down. "Oh my God, Tony actually let that get to the reporters?!"

"So it's true?" Joyce asked.

"NO! He just spread that rumor to be a dick. It's what he does."

"You gonna get back at him?"

Clint shrugged. "Maybe. I'll have to think of something."

"Well... if you want... I can help you."

"Can you?"

She nodded fervently. "Yeah, totally. I was a huge prankster as a kid. That was my thing."

"What's your 'thing' now. What do you do?"

"I'm a Victoria's secret model." She said with a straight face.

"Is that a joke?" Clint asked, the words coming out of his mouth before he could filter his thoughts.

"Nope. Hand to God."

"Seriously?"

She suddenly began laughing. Laughing profusely. "NO! Of course not! I'm a waitress. I'm on my lunch break, an I figured coffee might do me some good. Actually..."

She looked at her watch. "I should be heading back. It was nice to meet you, Clint Barton."

"Maybe we can meet here again sometime?" He asked. "Plan that revenge prank on Stark?"

She smiled brightly. "I'd like that. Maybe tomorrow?"

He nodded.

"Great! Same time as today. See you then."

Clint watched as she exited the restaurant, taking off her hat to reveal a flood of... black hair?

"Damn it." He said under his breath.

He just didn't get a break, did he?

AUTHORS NOTE: HOPE YOU ALL ENJOYED! SORRY IF THIS WASN'T GOOD OR ANYTHING. STILL, THANKS FOR READING!


	2. Chapter 2

Joyce was tired. Tired, frustrated, and unhappy. What else was she supposed to feel? She hated her job. The boss, Mr. Jimson, worked her like a slave, always using her to do all the odd jobs. She had to sweep/mop the whole floor, clean the tables, wipe down the counter, plus the waitressing. And of course the fact that he was a dirty, disgusting pervert wasn't a big help either. Always grabbing her ass, tits, whatever he could get his grubby hands on.

Oh, and all the other waitresses hated her. Why? Well probably it was because of her little problem. The one that she tries to keep to herself, but everybody notices eventually. But let's not talk about that. Besides, Joyce wasn't one to sit on the pity pot for too long, not anymore.

Her life wasn't all that bad, anyway. She had a job and an apartment and money to put food on the table, which is more than a shitload of people in this big blue ball have. Besides, she had a new reason to be happy. A new reason to smile. Because a week ago Joyce met a handsome guy at a Starbucks, a handsome guy that happened to save the world. Or at least helped save it.

Speaking of which, Joyce was going to meet him right... about... NOW. 12:35.

Grabbing her coat, she practically sprinted out the door. It was about five or so minutes to get to her destination, but to her the walk felt like a fucking hour. But once she got there to see the blonde already holding two mocha peppermint lattes, Joyce was grinning from ear to ear.

"Hey!" She called, running across the street.

Clint waved his cup of coffee. "Hey Joyce! How's waitressing going?"

"Fine, it's boring as usual. How's superheroing?"

"Superheroing?"

"Well... yeah."

"That's not a word."

"But it describes what you do, am I right? Waitressing is a word, and it describes being a waitress. Why can't the word superhero apply to the same rule?" Joyce asked.

"Probably because it just sounds plain stupid."

"So now I'm stupid?" Joyce pouted out her lip, pretending to cry. "You wound me!"

"You're a smartass, you know that?"

She shrugged. "Yeah, it's common knowledge."

He chuckled. "Glad the public is aware. So, do you want to go inside or do you wanna freeze?"

"Let's freeze! We could just stand here in funny poses while people wonder what the hell we're doing."

"Let's not."

"Aw, but it'd be fun!" Joyce pouted dramatically.

Clint shook his head, taking his new friend by the hand and leading her inside. It was crowded as usual, and there were literally no tables in sight. Not that it mattered to either of them, it was just nice to be in the warmth. The two stood in the least crowded corner to talk in relative peace.

"You what we haven't done yet?" Joyce asked.

"What?"

"We haven't discussed that prank on Stark for spreading rumors about you!"

Clint snorted. "You were being serious?"

"Yes. Absolutely."

"But we're adults." He pointed out.

"Sure. Sure we are." She said dismissively.

"Are you implying something, Joyce?"

She smiled. "Just that we put too much stock into this whole 'adulthood' concept. I mean, physically we're grown, but our minds? Let's face it, we're all just giant ass children on the inside."

Clint took a sip of his latte, crossing his arms. "And what makes you say that?"

"Think about it. We all get a kick out of nasty, disgusting things just like we did as kids. Only instead of snot and slime, it's all blood and guts and death. We seem to need to find increasingly creative ways to make things go boom, everybody knows that. And we all love the idea of revenge. We as a society pretend to be more sophisticated, but really, everybody just found less overt ways to indulge in our child-like desires."

The assassin nodded, taking this in. "So if by pulling a prank on Tony Stark, we're just being more honest than most people?"

"Yes."

"... You seem to have a way with words, Joyce. Ever think of going into politics? You could persuade a crowd to do anything."

She just threw her head back and laughed. "No, no... I have a soul."

Clint almost spit out his coffee. "You can't a soul to go into politics?"

"I think that's requirement number one." Joyce replied.

"Oh my god, Joyce. You're... something."

"I'm something? What kind of something? Do you think I'm one of those lizard people the conspiracy nuts are going on about?"

"No, no. As a member of a top secret organization that happens to deal with alien life, I can assure you there are no lizard people."

Joyce gave him a mock-suspicious look. "What kind of people ARE there?"

"Classified."

"Is that an answer I'm going to be getting a lot of when I'm around you?"

"Yes." He answered simply. "Yes it is."

"Well where's the fun in THAT?! Secrets are meant to be told, Clint!"

"Not gonna happen."

"What if I started calling you 'Clit' Barton until you spill some government info?"

He shook his head. "I've been called worse than that."

"Like what?"

He took another sip of his drink. "... Classified."

"You dick!"

"I thought I was a clit."

"... Shut up."

"Great come back."

"Damn right!" Joyce practically shouted, several people turning to look at her. "Now, about that prank."

Clint rolled his eyes. "You're still on that?"

"Yes. Yes I am. Come on, it'd be so fun!"

He sighed, giving in. "What'd you have in mind?'

"Nude pictures. We post them all over the internet-"

"He'd pose for them himself." Clint dissented.

"We get him really drunk and-"

"He does that without our help.."

Joyce took a minute to think. "We spread a rumor that he's gay."

"I think every news station, blog, and obscure website has beaten you to the punch."

"Okay then. What do YOU suggest?"

"It's your idea. You come up with something."

"Then stop shooting down all my ideas!" Joyce exclaimed, throwing out her hands.

Suddenly the time on her watch caught her attention. 1:26. Shit. SHIT. SHIT!

"Fuck me, I gotta go!"

"Fuck you? We haven't really known each other for that long..."

"Shut up, Clit. I'm serious. I have to get back. But this conversation isn't over!"

Clint smiled. "Whatever you say. But Joyce?"

"Yes?"

"Maybe we could meet at a different place? Y'know... like a restaurant?"

Joyce smiled. "I'd like that."

"Or maybe you could come back to the tower and annoy Tony in person."

She chuckled. "See ya later, Clint."

"See ya later."

And with that, she left. Clint smiled. He didn't know why he decided to keep meeting her here. Maybe it was that eccentric personality, or because she really WAS beautiful, or... whatever. He liked Joyce. Maybe she wouldn't be the one, but she could be a good friend. One of the few... okay the ONLY, one who happened to not be a murderer in some shape or form.

He finished his coffee, heading back to the tower to deal with another twenty four hours of... well... the others. Their personalities spoke for themselves.

AUTHORS' NOTE: THANKS FOR READING! HOPE YOU ALL LIKED! PLEASE TELL ME WHAT I NEED TO IMPROVE ON OR IF I WAS OUT OF CHARACTER. I'M JUST NOT USED TO WRITING ABOUT CLINT. HE'S KIND OF A MYSTERY. STILL, THANK YOU AGAIN!

:)


	3. Chapter 3

Clint was having a rough night. Well... he usually has rough nights. Sleep didn't come easily to the poor, guilt-ridden agent. Every time he closed his eyes, Clint saw the faces of the people he killed. Many of them were innocent, just poor bastards who got caught up in the middle of things. There wasn't a day that went by that one of their images didn't pass through his head.

And the dreams... good god the dreams. Clint remembered the feeling of Tesseracts' control over him. It was... he was like a puppet. The body was a puppet, mouth spewing information to the enemy on command. Mind giving out ideas on how to kill everybody he held dear. And it wasn't just the fact that this feeling was remembered... no, no. It was the amount of clarity with which the memories that went along with it had. Clint could recite every detail of his conversations with Loki, and could say every way he betrayed his beloved Natasha.

The most horrible ways to kill her, and the truth about her past. Clint had even told the god about his love for her, how he thought she was his certainty. And the horrid, plotting smile on Loki's face haunted Clint's mind like a rancid mist.

The archer tried to sleep. Really he did. But it was becoming more and more difficult. It wasn't just Natasha he betrayed. It was the whole goddamn SHIELD team. Coulson, his handler and dear friend. Fury, the director and protector of the Earth behind the scenes. Maria Hill, the loyal and loving Agent. And yet he had no scruples with nearly murdering them all in cold blood.

... Makes for one hell of a case for Insomnia, doesn't it?

After that horrid spell was broken, everybody kept telling him that it wasn't his fault. 'Don't do that to yourself', Natasha said. She didn't know what he'd done. What he'd said. Everybody treated him with sympathy, in some degree. Even Fury. Coulson, after his recovery, suggested that Clint talk to somebody. A therapist. But that's not what he needed. Clint knew himself.

What he needed wasn't sympathy, or empathy, or special treatment... no. What Clint needed was what he deserved. To be kicked out of SHIELD. Dishonorably discharged. Shunned by all the other Avengers. Because what he'd done was inexcusable. Spell or no spell.

Perhaps that's why he hasn't found his certainty. Because he doesn't deserve it. That would make sense, if you believed in Karma. Clint wasn't sure what he believed. Well... he believed in something. But he didn't know what that something was. But all that existential, lofty thinking is beside the point. Maybe that's why the only woman Clint has actually gotten along with, one person he could have a 'normal' conversation with, she wasn't his. I mean, it's not like he was in love with her or anything, it was too early for that and this wasn't a Disney movie. But...

You know, after having his heart crushed for the woman he was already in love with, a little hope would be nice. But he didn't deserve it. But it's nothing to cry about. So what if he had PTSD? So what if he had nightmares? So fucking WHAT if he couldn't sleep?! That's just how things work. You can't change the rules. It's just life.

... Even if life is a bitch.

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><p>Joyce, in her small Brooklyn apartment, woke up in her bed, gasping. Sweating. Helpless tears pouring down her face. This happened more often than not, now a days. It's funny how things work like that. When you're younger, memories are easy to repress and store away in that little file we all have in the back of our mind. You know that file. It's the one you see after you pass Happy Nostalgia, and take a right at Emotional Triggers.<p>

The one labeled: "BAD SHIT! KEEP OUT!" You know, it's like the Demon-Summoning spell book from all those horror movies that you KNOW you shouldn't read but you do anyway because curiosity just keeps creeping up on you.

That was the one that had Joyce drenched in various forms of bodily water. She tried to tune it out. But... after so many years, the trauma just seemed to sneak its way back in to her mind. And the constant, deep, mind numbing emptiness in her heart.

Joyce stood up. Sleep was just out of the question at this point. She trudged across the soft carpet in her room and into the bathroom. Hot water. She needed hot water. Turning the shower on, Joyce waited patiently for the heat to reach her satisfaction. Water pounded out of the spout. Joyce liked the sound. It reminded her of heavy rain.

The bathroom was a cloud of steam. Joyce embraced the near boiling heat. It was soothing. And it was punishment. This was the only punishment Joyce allowed herself anymore.

It was her fault. It was all her fault. No matter what the police had said, what the psychiatrists drilled into Joyce's mind... She remembered that look on her parents faces... twin expressions. The one that dissented from all these claims of innocence. Joyce was to blame.

Another memory, synonymous with that one, creeped in. This one was worse because it was happy. Bright blue eyes. They're always blue when you're a kid, right? A smile. It was summer break. Laughing of course. They were talking about starting middle school. It was a late night, they were eating popcorn. Watching something Joyce couldn't remember.

She slid to the floor. Joyce remembered blood. Drenched in blood, that lifeless body. So much red. So much pain. It was only here, late at night, that she cried. During the day it was just a matter of putting on her 'Everything's OK' smile. Nobody had to know. Of course her little secret, the one that shows... everybody had to see it eventually. She dreaded the day when her new friend saw it. What would he think of her then?

For now she had to cover it up as best she could. Besides, it was winter, it should be easy to hide. Joyce got out of the shower, feeling sufficiently punished. There were red hot streaks down her back. They'd be gone tomorrow, but that was okay.

She crawled back into bed. Joyce tried to focus on something else besides memories. Or maybe she could take some Ambien. Either way, either way. Tomorrow she could spend an hour with Clint. That was the one time Joyce could sufficiently forget all the pain... just have some fun for a change. Because, for some reason, he was able to do that. Even though it came right back to her mind as soon as he was gone.

... Life can be a real bitch, can't it?

AUTHORS NOTE: HOPE YOU ALL ENJOYED! SORRY IF I LAID ON THE DRAMA TOO THICK. BUT ANYWAY, THANKS FOR READING AND SUPPORTING! SEE YOU ALL NEXT CHAPTER (WHICH IS A LOT LESS DEPRESSING).


	4. Chapter 4

"So when are we gonna meet her?" Tony asked as he plopped beside Clint on the longue couch.

"What?"

"Y'know. When are we gonna meet the little lady? The woman you've been sneaking off to see?"

Clint rolled his eyes. He wasn't about to discuss his new friend with Tony. Partly because Tony was a womanizing, self-centered son of a bitch that would probably just lure Joyce into bed and then kick her out... and partly because he was the kind of asshole who would spread a whole big rumor about them being in a relationship.

"I don't know what you're talking about, Stark."

He nodded, as he knew something Clint didn't. "Oh... I get it."

"Jesus, what now?"

"I mean I get it. She's ugly."

"Dude, fuck you." Clint said.

"Okay, so what is she dumb as a rock?"

"I'm going to stab you in the eye with my arrow while you're sleeping."

Tony crossed his arms. "What happened to shooting arrows, Katniss? Getting lazy?"

The archer gave a him a look like steel daggers.

Tony threw up his hands. "Alright! I just thought you might like to invite her to the Tower."

"Off the subject, Tony."

The "genius" (Yes Clint uses the quotations around that word, even in his head), leaned in. He studied Clint's face. The archer tried to ignore him and focus on the television. But Stark just kept staring him. You know when somebody's looking at you, and you can literally feel their stare burning into you? Yeah. Clint was getting annoyed with this. But he just went on staring at the TV. Don't give in... Ah, fuck it.

"I will lawnmower your balls." Clint said with dead eyes, turning.

"Well somebody needs anger management."

"Yeah, and somebody else needs a padded room and straight jacket."

Stark dragged his finger down his cheek, mimicking a tear. "Why do you hurt me, baby?"

"Because you're a pain in the ass."

"Well at least tell me why you won't tell me about your girl? Wait... oh... is it a guy?"

Clint gave him the middle finger.

"Hey! I got nothing against people like you! Tell me about him. Does he work with you in SHIELD?"

"Leave him alone, Stark." Cap said from behind the men.

The two turned to see the tall blonde standing there, arms crossed.

"Aw man, you're no fun." Stark stood up, putting his hand on his hip and flicking his wrist at the soldier.

Clint shook his head. "And you accuse ME of being gay, you sassy motherfucker?"

"What are you implying?" Tony crossed his arms.

"I'm not implying anything, Tonya. I'm saying you're a fruit cocktail."

"That's insulting! I always thought of myself as a fine champagne."

"... And point proven." Clint said.

Steve put his head in his hand. "Are you two children?"

"... Young at heart?" Tony offered.

The soldier sighed. "I think I'm... I'm just gonna go now."

"Will you take Stark with you?"

"Why would I do that?" He asked.

"Because you're like his babysitter. You change his diaper, give him a time-out, breastfeed him a bit-"

"Yeah, I'm leaving." Steve interrupted, walking backwards towards the elevator.

So Tony and Clint were left alone once again. The two were silent for several minutes before the inventor spoke again. "So... when are we gonna meet her?"

Clint groaned.

"What, you thought I was going to let up on you about that?"

"Kind of, yes."

Tony shook his head. "You should know me better than that."

"Why do you care, anyway?"

He shrugged. "I'm bored. You're the most fun to fuck with."

"Yeah well I'm taking Caps' lead, and leaving. You're just too annoying for my taste."

Clint hopped up, walking over to the elevator. Tony called back: "Aww but I love you!"

"... That's not even funny."

And with that, the archer left.

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><p>Joyce waited in the nice little Italian place Clint agreed to meet her at. They'd exchanged phone numbers, and had been texting quite often. She had donned a nice purple dress, long-sleeved of course. She had put her hair in a bun for this occasion, and silver studs. She hummed quietly to herself, fixing the dark pink lipstick she'd put on earlier.<p>

She's been looking forward to this for a week. Joyce had a rare day off (not without a few ass smacks from the boss) and wanted to spend at least some of it with Clint. She didn't know why, but he really did make her happy.

Besides, she'd had a rough few nights. Before Joyce could even start to dwell, a handsome blonde sat down across from her. He was in a nice gray blazer, pants to match, and a silk blue button up.

"Lookin' good Clint."

"You're not so bad yourself. A lot of purple."

She shrugged. "Yeah, well it IS your color."

"Purple? My color?"

"Yeah. You have purple on your costume, don't you?"

"... Possibly." He replied. "So you wanted to mimic me?"

"No, just sort of... match?"

"Like those asshole couples who dress the same on Halloween?"

Joyce laughed. "Oh God NO!" She took a sip of the complimentary water. "So we're a couple now?"

"Uh..."

Clint wasn't sure how to answer that. The wrong answer could result in a quick slap to the face and ending of whatever this relationship was.

"I'm a... Well... do you want to be?"

"A couple? Well... we've only known each other for a couple weeks. I'm not too keen on rushing into anything."

Clint nodded. That was somewhat of a relief.

"Plus, we'd have to talk about our certainties. And if we found out they didn't uh... work... Then where would we be?"

"Exactly." Well they don't work already, but she didn't have to know that.

"Yeah, it's all very personal. I'm glad you agree. So... we can just be friends for now and... see where it goes?"

Clint, despite feeling bad for not being entirely honest, nodded. They probably wouldn't end up together anyway. It's not like they had a lot of interesting and engaging conversations... wait. Oh. Well it's not as if they got along so well that it'd be a possibility... shit. Uh... Okay, it's not as if they found each other attract... ive.

... Huh.

AUTHORS NOTE: WELL, HOPEFULLY YOU ALL ENJOYED THIS CHAPTER! SEE, TOLD YOU IT'D BE LESS DEPRESSING. THANKS FOR READING AND SUPPORTING!


	5. Chapter 5

_A month Later..._

Joyce trudged across the threshold of her apartment, shutting the door and dismantling her uniform. It had been a long day, as usual. The whispers and stares kept coming. Her boss wanted to fuck her. All the usual bullshit she'd dealt with in this life that she couldn't escape. The woman chose it, after all. Throughout the day, Joyce had kept on that same fucking Everything Is Okay Smile, The I'm Not Ready to Burst Into Tears at Any Moment Smile, The I Don't Know That You're Calling Me A Mental Case Behind My Back Smile. It was something that she'd had to put on ever since... well... since she was fourteen. Even back then nobody felt sympathy. People were afraid of Joyce, thinking she was unhinged. Children avoided her, teachers tip-toed about her, and her parents... Joyce didn't even want to think about it.

And through it all, she kept on that same fucking smile. Just to get through another day. But now, safe in this tiny apartment, Joyce let go of all that and collapsed onto the dirty old couch. It was about 8:00 at night. Joyce hadn't eaten since breakfast. She worked through her lunch break to earn a bit more money. So yeah, it was time for dinner.

Joyce meandered into her kitchen in nothing but a pair of black panties and a sports bra. Well... actually, the kitchen was more of a kitchenette, too small to fit more than two people at a time. It was adjacent to her small living room, left side. On the right was the short hallway to the single bedroom. Some days Joyce missed the two-story house she'd grown up in, light blue and opulent... so many windows.

But that was in the past. She had to stop dwelling on it. Even if it was difficult.

Anyway, back to cooking! Joyce sure as hell wasn't in the mood to start anything too complicated. Maybe just some mac and cheese or something. Raman noodles? Fuck, she didn't know. It was at this point that her phone, which was lying on the counter, vibrated and went "BING!"

A text. She picked up the little device. It was from Clint. Joyce beamed. She hadn't heard from him in a week, he said he had some classified mission. There was that word again. Classified.

_Hey Joyce. How are you doing? Wondering if you'd like to come to Stark Tower for dinner and a movie. _

Eyes widened, Joyce grinned. Clint had never invited her (at least seriously, that thing about annoying Tony had been a joke of course) to the tower. Suddenly it felt as if all her fatigue just vanished.

**Of course I would! I've missed you, Clint. :) Just let me bathe and take a cab up there. **

_Fuck a cab! I'm sending a limo._

That... was a little weird. But hey, who's gonna turn down a free limo?

**uh... Ok. Great. See you when I get there. **

_See ya then, baaaabbyy. :-* _

Okay, that was really weird. Since when did Clint send kissy faces? Maybe he was tired from his mission. Joyce didn't read too much into it. He was back, and she was going to see him. Screw the Ramans! Joyce stripped naked and all but sprinted for the shower.

* * *

><p>"Stark! What did you do with my fucking phone?!" Clint asked as he walked out of the elevator.<p>

* * *

><p>The archer had gotten back from the mission in Moscow a couple hours ago. It had been a rough week, doing absolutely classified things that the agent was NOT at liberty to discuss with anyone.<p>

After taking a much needed shower and unpacking his clothes, Clint went to get his personal cell off out of the nightstand drawer. It was something he always kept at the tower. The assassin wanted to call Joyce, tell her he was okay. Ask how she was. You know, the usual friend shit.

But it was gone. Just. Fucking. Gone. His first thought, automatically, was that one of SHIELD's many enemies had gotten a hold of it and everyone he cared about was in mortal danger. Shit he had to grab his arrows, call Coulson on the agency phone, and get-

Wait, wait, wait. If anyone had taken his cell that was a threat, JARVIS would have alerted him immediately. Okay, crisis averted.

"Jarv?" He asked.

"Yes sir?"

"Who's been in here the past week? Who the hell has authorization to access this floor?"

"Um... I'm so sorry Sir, but I cannot answer that question."

That could only mean one thing. Clint grit his teeth.

"I'm gonna kill that son of a Bitch."

* * *

><p>"I honestly don't know what you're talking about, Cupid."<p>

"Don't play dumb, Stark. I am not in the mood for your games."

Tony shrugged nonchalantly, stepping back a bit towards the bar. Clint couldn't believe this. He knew Tony was an idiot, it wasn't a huge secret, but taking a master assassin's personal property? Full of personal information? Come on, there has to be a limit to the stupidity.

... Actually wait, scratch that. Never mind.

The genius hummed quietly as he went to make himself a scotch. "You seem tense, want a drink?"

Clint crossed his arms. "I want my goddamn phone back."

"You sure you don't want a drink? I'm having one."

"... I'm not afraid to kill a dumbass just because he's famous. I hope you know that."

"Well I still don't know what you're talking about." Sip. "Besides, I'm a lovable dumbass."

"That's debatable." Clint retorted.

Tony pouted out his lower lip. "I'm crushed."

"Good. Now give me my phone before I twist you into a pretzel."

He growled. "Ooh, kinky."

"... There's no way you're straight."

Tony smiled devilishly, shooting the archer a wink. "Is that a proposition, hot stuff?"

"PHONE. NOW."

"For the last time!" Tony exclaimed. "I don't have your ph-"

_Trick or Treat, Sweet to eat, On Halloween and New Years Eve... _

_Yankee Girls you just can't be beat, but they're best, when they're off they're feet!_

_GIRLS GIRLS GIRLS!_

"Give it." Clint demanded, holding out his hand. Tony did so.

He saw it was Joyce calling. He answered immediately. "Joyce! Hi!"

"Hey Clint!"

"Wow uh... I was just about to call you, actually." He said.

"You were? Why? I'm just calling to tell you I'm here."

The archer's brow furrowed. "What do you mean, here?"

"I mean... you- you texted me earlier. Invited me over for dinner and a movie?"

Clints eyes darted over to Tony, who simply stood there with an innocent little grin on his face. The spy held his left index finger up and drug it across his throat in the universal sign for "DEATH".

It's not like Clint didn't want her to come over, not at all. Well... aside from Tony being himself. It's just the fact that this plan was made completely without his knowledge, giving Cint no time to prepare and make the lounge look nice. Plus the archer didn't HAVE any dinner for her. How tasteless was that?!

"Clint?" Worry had creeped into Joyce's voice. It was a really strange, whipped puppy tone.

"Everything's fine! Just fine. Uh... I just haven't gotton dinner ready yet." Eyes back to Tony, giving the 'Have Somebody Make Something Before You Fucking Die' look. "That's why I was gonna call."

Tony smiled, mouthing "Taken Care Of". Clint nodded.

"That's okay. I can wait. See you in a couple minutes?"

"Yep. See ya soon. Bye."

"Bye."

The two hung up. "Why?" Clint asked.

"I told you I wanted to meet her." Tony replied.

"So you stole my phone and invited her over the minute I come home from a mission?!"

He shrugged. "That's the gist of it."

"Get out."

"Of what, this is my tower."

"This room. I don't want you near Joyce." Clint clarified.

"Uh, my room. And no, I want to meet her."

"But why?!"

"Because you've been so hung up on Natashalie that's it a near marvel you've found yourself a new object of affection. And I want to see what she did to break this spell." He explained.

"Why do you care?"

"... I'm not as heartless of a bastard as I make myself out to be. Despite popular belief, I DO give a damn about the people I work with. And I've been a bit worried about you, man. Besides, I consider you... Well... a friend of sorts."

That kind of shocked Clint, to be honest. No sarcasm? No smartass remark? Just sincerity and a kind tone of voice? This just didn't seem right. And yet here it was, right before his eyes.

"Well, thanks Tony."

"Yeah, well, you're still only like... number 8 on my list of friends. Right after Couslon. You've surpassed Steve though, so good job on that one."

... Aaaannd there was the real Tony. Clint didn't mind so much, at least not right now. Stark just didn't really... do emotions well. Any sincerity had to be sandwiched between sarcasm and smartassery.

"Where does this list of yours end?"

"About 12."

"And where does Steve lie at?"

"I don't know, 15. He just barely edged in there before Fury."

"...You're a very strange person."

"And your date is here." Stark stated, pointing in the direction of the elevator.

Joyce walked out in dark red leggings with a flowing white blouse that billowed around her round hips. All her ebony hair was pinned in a messy bun, barely taming the thick locks. A few of her curls popped out around the edge of the hairtie.

Her lips matched the leggings, a deep, beautiful red. As she drew closer, Clint saw the very light eyeshadow surrounding those big blue eyes of hers. For a moment, the archer didn't know what to do with himself. She was lovely. But, of course, after remembering his Certainty, Clint shook it off.

But before he could do anything else, the lovely woman had her arms around him, embracing. Clint hesitantly squeezed back, tenderly holding Joyce's hips.

"I missed you." She said honestly. "Funny thing about having a secret agent for a best friend. I couldn't be sure you'd be coming back alive until I saw you."

Clint smiled into her hair, which was just at eye level. "Missed you too, Joyce."

"Ahem." An annoying prick called from behind. The two broke apart.

"If you both are done with this awkward dance of sexual tension, it would be great if I could greet the lady."

Joyce sauntered over to the bar, holding out her hand. "Joyce. Joyce Rivers."

Tony, seeing an opportunity to annoy Clint, tenderly held the tips of her fingers and kissed the back of her hand. "You know who I am, obviously. So, Joyce, tell me... what's a fine little feature like yourself doing, dating our resident Hunger Games reject?"

"Watch it Stark." Clint warned. "You might not like it if I demonstrated my skills all over your lab. All that delicate equipment..."

"And we'll see how you like not having a place to stay."

Joyce smacked his arm. "And we'll see how YOU feel with a high heel shoved right up your ass."

"Ooh, feisty. I see why Clint takes an interest."

"And furthermore," she continued, ignoring that. "We're not dating."

Tony shook his head. "Denial, denial. We'll see about that after somebody walks in on you two having sex on my couch."

"Stark." Clint said.

"Yes?"

"Go."

"Alright, alright. Geez, sensitive aren't we?"

"Leave." He commanded.

Throwing up his hands, the genius backed up to the elevator. "And clean off the cushions if you get your cum spots all over them." He said before the doors closed.

Clint put his face into his hands. "Ugh... I'm sorry for that. He can be an insensitive prick."

"Trust me, it's not the first time I've dealt with guys like that."

"Still... He should know better."

Joyce shrugged. "So he thinks we're dating?"

"Yep."

"That explains the texts." She mumbled.

"What do you mean?"

"Since when do you call me baby?"

The archer groaned. "That asshole. I should've known he'd give it away like that."

"I assume he stole your phone?" Joyce asked.

"Yeah." He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly.

"Then why did you lie about... you know... knowing that I was coming over?"

Clint sighed. "Well you were already here, I'd feel like a dick if I just rescinded the invitation. Besides, you were going to come over at some point."

Joyce smiled. "That's sweet. So... No dinner then?"

"Well, Tony said he had that taken care of, so-"

Just then, a man came in, rolling a cart. There were two plates, each baring a large steak and whipped potatoes. He set each plate down on the table in front of the couch, then returned to retrieve two elegant crystal glasses, a bottle of wine, and a tall candle.

The man poured the wine, lit said candle, and left. And, as if on cue, the lights dimmed. A soft, romantic music played in the background.

Clint was about ready to bang his head against the wall. Damn you, Stark.

AUTHORS NOTE: HOPE YOU ALL ENJOYED THE CHAPTER! THANKS SO SO MUCH FOR READING AND SUPPORTING! SEE YOU ALL NEXT CHAPTER!


	6. Chapter 6

After an especially awkward dinner, during which Clint planned many spectacular deaths for Stark, the two were deciding what movie to watch. Tony, being the billionaire bachelor (well former bachelor) he was, had a massive collection. In fact, the man had an entire data file specifically dedicated to movies, and were accessible by way of his holographic display panel.

"How about "A Few Good Men?"" Suggested Clint. "It's really good. Plus it's the source of one of the most famous movie quotes ever."

Joyce shrugged. "It's good, but I'm not really in the mood for a serious wartime flick. How about something a little more... fun?"

"Such as?"

The dark haired woman thought. "Jurrassic Park? It's one of those movies everybody can enjoy."

"Well..." Clint started. "I have a problem with that one."

"Clint Barton, if you are about to tell me you don't like Jurrasic Park, I swear to God I will never speak to you again."

He shook his head. "No, no. I love it. It's just..."

"What?"

"It's got that stuttering, human Praying Mathis Jeff Goldblum in it." The archer explained.

"Hey, that's not cool, man." Joyce exclaimed. "What'd he ever do to you?"

"I'm sorry! He just creeps me out. Those fucking eyes... yeesh. And he twitches... he's like a bug."

"Don't hate on the Goldblum, man. He was really hot back in the day."

Clint shook his head. "Never mind, never mind. How's Mission Impossible sound?"

Joyce sighed. "Stop picking movies starring Tom Cruise! He's such an asshole... and he's got the mind of a soggy fruit loop."

"Fair enough." Clint agreed. "What about something more recent?"

Joyce smiled. "What'd you have in mind?"

"Uh.. Not sure. Avatar?"

"Mmm... blue rabbit fucking." Joyce replied, trying and failing to fake being turned on.

This just made her blonde companion laugh. "I was talking about the one adapted from the tv show. The other Avatar. But I'm liking the way you think."

"M. Night Shamamamamaylan fucked that movie all to hell."

Clint gave a small smile to that pronunciation. "Okay, we have to agree on something. We're going with recent movies, right?"

"Right." Confirmed Joyce.

"Maybe... uh... Gravity?"

"And throw up my delicious steak? Never! How about that Hunger Games thing?"

Clint did not respond for a minute, before whispering dramatically: "Why do you hurt me in this way?"

Joyce scooted over to him, pouting out her lip. Clint wasn't entirely sure what she was about to do next. He froze, heart beginning to speed up. Was she about to-

And then suddenly she pinched the fat of his cheek. "Aww... did I hurt the little assassin's feelings?"

... Oh. Well that was... anticlimactic.

"No." He said, recovering. "Let's uh... What about American Hustle? I've heard it's interesting. And has a lot of... hair comedy. I've never seen it, but... it's an option."

"Sure. Why not. Put it up on the screen thingy."

"Holographic display panel." Clint corrected.

"Science mumbo jumbo. Movie time!" She dismissed, giving Clint a wide grin.

The archer found that strangely cute. Her teeth showed, all white and snowy. The way her mouth smiled around them was slightly crooked, almost like somebody put extra muscles into the right side of her face so it leaned.

He'd never noticed that.

Quickly he shook it off, turning the screen and typing in the title. After about ten seconds it appeared, so Clint pressed the "watch" option and took his place beside Joyce.

As it began, the two saw Christian Bale with a freaking comb over. Joyce was already giggling. Then there was some other guy, Clint couldn't remember the name...with a perm. He could already tell this was going to be interesting. They were going to meet this politician, it appeared to be a sting operation.

Clint wasn't paying much attention. His eyes, for some reason, kept wandering back to his female companion. She was leaning back against the couch, legs firmly crossed. Joyce's eyes were sparkling with delight. Clint couldn't seem to look away. And then...

"Ahahahaha!" She suddenly began laughing hysterically, pointing at the screen.

He followed her arm, to see... Oh God.

"You're Jeremy Renner's freaking doppelganger!" She managed to sputter. "It's like if you grew a cartoon-y seventies pomp!"

For the second time that evening, Clint Barton wanted to bang his head against a wall. He should've watched it before suggesting it.

Joyce continued laughing, but managed to speak more clearly. "Wait a minute! Wait a minute! So there's a guy who looks just like you, a movie star no less, with a wig. Do you know what that means?"

"I fear the answer." Clint groaned.

"You're a male Hannah Montana!" She fell back into laughter, this time falling onto her back. "Except without... haha... the twerking!"

The agent couldn't help but smile at how amused she was by this. Joyce snorted when she laughed, but only when she laughed really really hard. And Clint found it oddly charming.

"Unless... You're... undercover! Is that it, you secret movie star?!"

"You caught me." He said, grinning.

She suddenly righted herself and pounced him. Now Clint was lying on his back, Joyce on top with her hands clinging to his shirt.

"Where are you keeping your wig? And the acting money?"

Playing along, the archer held up his hands and feigned fright. "I swear it's in the safe! Don't hurt me! I'm innocent!"

Joyce laughed on his chest, heaving. The archer below was suddenly very still. She was... She was kinda close. Her lips were sort of grazing his neck and her breasts were sort of pressed against him. And he was sort of... enjoying it. In a really uncomfortable way. The woman seemed to notice this, and stopped. This was a very odd position. A really really awkward and odd position.

"Uh..."

"I'll uh just..." Joyce removed herself from Clint.

"Can we agree to never put ourselves into vaguely sexual positions like that again?" Clint asked.

"Yeah. And not mention this one."

"Agreed."

Clint shifted his legs, firmly crossing them. Both kept their eyes glued to the screen. Yeah... that was not something to be repeated. At least nobody else had know about that, right?

AUTHOR'S NOTE: THANKS FOR READING AND SUPPORTING! HOPE YOU ALL ENJOYED! SEE YOU NEXT CHAPTER! :D


	7. Chapter 7

Joyce and Clint had fallen asleep on the couch about three quarters of the way through the movie. It wasn't because it was boring, not at all. It was just... Well... both had had a really long day. Clint was still dealing with jet-lag from the mission, Joyce had been up since the freaking crack of dawn... it was natural to fall asleep.

Jarvis had automatically turned the holographic display panel off after the two were out cold. They'd basically slept head-to-head, their feet pointing in opposite directions while their hair mingled. Neither of them dreamed.

The archer woke up first, he had heard the sound of Joyce's phone giving a little "bleep-bleep- Buzz Buzz" noise. Clint, after spending the night in hostile territory for years, had grown to become a light sleeper. His eyes opened, and he felt the tickle of Joyce's curls on his scalp.

She did not awaken. Slowly, Clint sat up. Her phone was sitting on the coffee table, and the screen was lit up. Now, just because he was a secret agent, it didn't mean that Clint Barton was a snoop.

Prying into somebody's phone was an asshole move. And he would have woken her up, had it not been for the first word he saw (the text was displayed on the home screen).

And that word was "BITCH!"

Quietly unlocking the phone, he read it. It said that it was from "Boss". Boss? Her boss? He knew she was a waitress, but had never been to the diner. Why did he have her cell number? Well she must have put in on her resume, that'd make sense.

"BITCH! IT'S NINE FUCKING THIRTY! YOU'RE OVER THREE HOURS LATE! THOSE FLOORS, THE DISHES, ALL NEED TO BE DONE! AND THOSE TABLES AREN'T GOING TO WAIT THEMSELVES, LAZY CUNT! YOU KNOW I HAVE A ZERO-DAY LATENESS POLICY.

... Although, if you really want to keep this job, you could put that pretty little mouth of yours to work. Or that fine ass. Be here first thing tomorrow ready to be begging on your knees for me or you're fired!"

Clint looked over to the sleeping woman by his side. His friend. She was so kind, and very peaceful as she slept. A bubbly young woman, full of energy and life. He thought back to last night. How she wrapped her arms around him, embracing as if he was going to disappear. It made him feel warm, cared for. She'd missed him, was worried about him. Suddenly the archer was very, very pissed off. Any man who spoke that way, especially to women as sweet as Joyce, deserved to be thrown off the Helicarrier with no parachute.

Taking the phone so he could show this to Coulson, he snuck off. This just crossed the fucking line. And he was out for blood.

* * *

><p>"Excuse me." A voice said quietly, shaking Joyce by the shoulder.<p>

The woman yawned, eyes opening only Half-way. Interesting thing about Joyce, she took a minute to wake up. The time between wakefulness and slumber could be considered to be the oddest moments of Joyce's personality. Being half-asleep brought out some weird behavior.

She turned her head towards the person waking her up. A man, medium height. Glasses. She sat up.

"Hiii." She said.

"Who are you? What are you- why are you on the couch?"

She looked about aimlessly for a minute. "Clint... where?"

"You're the woman Tony's been talking about? Client's friend?"

"Yeah. M'names Joyce."

With her swimming mind, Joyce didn't have much coordination. She stood up, walked into a wall, and stumbled into the man. She giggled.

"You have fluffy hair." She mumbled, leaning against him.

"Uh... Yeah. Do you need some coffee?"

"Starbucks! Clint... frappachino."

Bruce was perplexed at this odd woman. Tenderly, he pulled her back and set her on the couch again.

"I'm going to make some coffee. You uh... You wait here."

"Okay fluffy!" She replied.

The doctor went into the kitchen, while Joyce slowly began to wake up. Where did Clint go? And furthermore, why? Couldn't he have woken her up first? And also... wait, where was her phone?

"Here you go." Bruce said, placing a steaming hot cup of coffee in front of her.

"Thanks." She said, shooting him a groggy little smile. "What's your name?"

"I'm Bruce Banner. The uh... I'm a doctor."

Joyce suddenly grew wary and alert. She had a deep distrust of doctors. Or at least, certain kinds. She didn't want him to see her nervous, so she tried to play it off with some casual conversation.

"Oh, are you the one dealing with Tony's problems?"

He laughed. "No, no. There aren't enough psychologists in the world for that one. And I'm not that kind of doctor."

The lovely woman relaxed. That was good. He wasn't the kind of doctor who she was worried about.

"So you're like the Avengers private physician?"

"Amongst other things." He said this with a hint of bitterness, and his eyes grew depressed for a moment.

Joyce knew that feeling all too well. So she played it off as humor.

"That must be exhausting. A whole team of people who fight off bad guys every other week? I'm sorry for you, doc."

"Yeah. It's interesting work, though."

Joyce took a deep drink of her beverage. "So, do you know where Clint ran off too?"

"Well I saw him in the hallway a few minutes ago, he looked pretty upset. But he took the elevator down before I could say anything." Bruce explained.

Joyce's face read confusion. "Upset?"

"He was grumbling angrily at his phone-"

"Phone?"

She looked at the coffee table, where her cell was supposed to be. Then Joyce looked out the window at the bright Sun. She was supposed to be at work right now. Her boss-

"Oh no." Joyce whispered.

"What?"

"Oh God. Oh God he's... He must have... Oh God!"

She stood up. This was bad. This was so, so bad. If she knew her boss, anything he'd said couldn't have been respectful... or decent. Without another word, she ran for the elevator.

AUTHORS NOTE: HOPE THIS WAS GOOD! THANKS FOR READING AND SUPPORTING!


	8. Chapter 8

Joyce was running, sprinting, down the street. Oh God this was bad. This was so so bad. She was going to lose her job! Clint was going to do something awful... it made her shudder just imagining the consequences. It wasn't as if her boss didn't deserve a good ass-beating, quite the contrary actually, but... She needed the money damn it!

How else was she going to pay the bills? With her... secret... Not many employers are willing to hire her, especially after seeing Joyce's institu- No, no. No time to be feeling pity for herself.

Joyce knew she'd never catch a cab, not while the traffic was this heavy. So she continued running, against all logic.

The main goal was to stop Clint. But, wait. Wait just a fucking minute. What was she supposed to do? What could she possibly say to him without revealing her little conundrum? Shit. Shit! Well she'd have to think of something. Because Joyce couldn't afford to lose her waitressing position.

* * *

><p>Coulson and Clint quietly, calmly, entered the diner. It was small, with a sort of Fifties atmosphere to it. The tiles were black-white checkerboard, while all the seats and booths were red-upholstered. All the tables were metallic, chrome. A cute little place quite frankly. It was called "Jimmy's".<p>

A young woman with bouncy blonde hair and a polite smile approached them.

"What can I do for you two gentlemen?"

Coulson was the one who answered. Clint was so full of anger that speech was near out of the question. The archer feared he'd resort to extreme physical violence, and he couldn't do that. Yet.

"Good morning ma'am." Coulson said cordially. "We're here to talk to your manager. A Mr. Jimson, is it?"

Her smile faded quite rapidly. "Uh... might I ask what for?"

"We're here on behalf of an anonymous complaint about sexual harassment."

"You guys are like the police or something?"

The two agents exchanged glances. "Yes. Something like that. Now will you please fetch him?"

There was underlying commanding tone to Agent Coulson's voice, and it made her immediately turn to get him. The older man had agreed wholeheartedly to this intervention. He'd worked for decades, and seen the way men treated women evolve over time. He'd been guilty of a few less than professional remarks about certain busty co-workers, but never to their face and always made in a passing comment.

But if there was one thing Coulson couldn't stand, it was blatant and complete disrespect of an employee. Especially a woman. Not because women are weak or anything, it was quite the opposite. They're strong. And to say such awful things to any body, man or woman, is worthy of the treatment that was about to befall the poor bastard.

A tall man approached the duo. He was somewhere in his mid-thirties, dark haired, and... handsome. This came as a bit of a shock for both Clint and Coulson. It was only natural to expect somebody overweight, greasy, unshaven. Your typical disgusting pervert.

But it didn't really matter what he looked like. A sexist asshole was a sexist asshole, no matter which way you slice it.

"Mr. Jimson?" Clint asked.

"Yeah?"

"We're here on behalf of one of your employees."

He crossed his arms. "Who?"

"That's none of your concern. Just know we have badges, we have authority, and your actions towards your waitresses is illegal." Coulson threatened.

The restaurant owner smiled. "Prove it."

The two agents looked at one another. Clint and Coulson were on the same mental wavelength at this point, and came to a consensus. After exchanging a nod, the two grabbed him by his arms, and put them behind his back.

"What the Hell do think you assholes are doing?!"

"Arresting you for sexual assault, harassment, and resisting arrest."

"I'm not resisting SHIT! I want a lawyer motherfuckers!" He yelled, struggling against the men.

With devious smiles, the agents dragged Jimson out of the diner and into the parking lot. Clint let go, allowing Coulson to twist his arm over the shoulder.

"Who are you people?!" He shouted through his tears of physical pain.

Dragging him over to the car, Coulson pinned him to the hood. "Clint! Get your interrogation devices!"

The archer smiled. "With pleasure."

He opened the trunk, taking out his bow and arrows. He loaded his bow with a very special, very illegal arrow. It was equipped with miniature hooks along the tip, which were designed to clamp into whatever their target was. The hooks were also poisonous.

Coulson had flipped Jimson over, and had him splayed out across the hood. Arms above his head, on his back. When the archer approached, he aimed the pointy, oh so pointy arrow, right between Jimson's legs.

The owners face turned white.

"Oh no, oh no no no no, please. I'll do anything you want, man! Just... don't do what you're thinking about doing!"

Clint grinned. "Anything?"

"Yes!"

"Alright." He lowered the bow a tiny bit. "You know Joyce Rivers? The woman you've been harassing? Making her do all the extra work?"

He nodded fervently.

"Okay, good. You will pay her for every cent of overtime she put in. You will then compensate for all the sexual remarks and actions you've made towards her."

"H-how much?" He asked.

"Hmm... How long has she been working for you?"

"F-f-four years."

"Then $40,000."

"What?!"

Clint pointed the arrow again.

"Okay okay! I'll pay!"

"Once you've paid her, you will lay her off. But you will recommend her to a more recuitible establishment, and for a higher position. After this you will never contact her again."

He gulped.

"And if you fail to complete any of these actions, which believe me I will know about it..."

Clint pressed the tip of the arrow right to his crotch, letting it poke just enough to hurt.

"Do I make myself clear?"

The bastard was crying now. He nodded.

"Good boy."

Coulson let Jimson go. He scrambled to his feet, shaking and terrified. His dark eyes were wild and widened with fear.

"Have a nice day." Coulson said, politely smiling.

The two agents walked off quietly into the morning.

AUTHORS NOTE: THANKS FOR READING AND SUPPORTING THE STORY SO FAR! HOPE YOU ALL ENJOYED! :)


	9. Chapter 9

She held the wad of bills in her hands numbly. Running her fingers across the paper, it still didn't seem real. The sound of them, crisp and new, was intoxicating. Maybe this was a dream. But... it was $44,000. $44,000. $44,000! Jesus Christ on a cracker, that was fourth-four thousand fucking dollars. Joyce had never been in possession of that amount of money in her life!

And she was starting her new job at Houston's, a high-end steak place, in a week. Joyce set the money down, putting her hands over her mouth. Oh God. This was too much. Too good to be true.

This was when the tears started to flow. Her vision became blurred, fractured as she began to cry. Not out of sadness, but out of gratitude. Gratitude and joy. This shouldn't have happened, by all rational thinking. And of course with Joyce's streak of luck, it should have been an impossibility. But it wasn't, and it was because of one person.

Clint Barton.

* * *

><p>It was yesterday that this miracle occurred. Joyce had gotten to the diner, breathless and terrified. Oh God this was the end of her. She'd lose this job, for sure. And then her apartment. And then everything she owned.<p>

In the diner, all the patrons and waitresses stared at her. This wasn't unusual, at least when it was her co-workers. But this time it wasn't because of her secret. It was because of the boss coming in and sprinting to his office, screaming for somebody to call Joyce.

The woman entered the office hesitantly, her body tense. Joyce prepared for the worst.

Jimson was sitting at his desk, his face pale and clammy. She approached him, careful of every step. Those eyes of his were fixed on her. Like he was afraid of her. As soon as Joyce got to the desk, Mr. Jimson held out the magical thing now lying on her coffee table as hundred dollar bills. His hands were shaking.

"Take it."

She did so. Looking at the amount, her jaw dropped. Her mouth couldn't form words. That was fourty-four grand.

"Wh- why... is this... Am I..."

"Compnesation. Plus overtime. Plus severance."

"So I AM fired?" Joyce asked, obviously knowing the answer.

Jimson suddenly grabbed a pen, and wrote furiously on one of the many sticky notepads he kept on his desk. As soon as he was done, Jimson slid the paper over to her. Joyce picked it up.

_31098 Brooklyn Ave. Be there at 3:00 PM sharp next Monday. _

"I got you a job at Houston's. Fancy steak place." He said. "Now leave. Just... leave."

Barely able to think, Joyce left the office, walked out of the diner, and took a cab to the bank.

* * *

><p>Now here she was, Joyce. God there was so much she could do with the money. Get a bigger place. Buy something for Clint, definitely. Do something about her problem. Maybe there was a surgery? No... No... that was a dumb thought. Uh... Oh God there was just so much money. Besides there better things to spend her money on.<p>

But... Jesus. Oh God. Oh God.

Joyce took three hundred dollar bills and folded them in her wallet. This was for Clint. She needed to see him. Thank him. God, she could... Well...

Never mind. She placed the rest of the money in a small safe, put the safe at the bottom of her dirty laundry hamper, and stuffed the hamper into the back of her closet. Joyce ran out, down the many flights of stairs to the ground floor, and once again, hailed a cab. Only this time to the tower.

* * *

><p>Clint found himself being attacked. One minute he was sitting at the bar with Bruce, discussing what happened yesterday and why, the next there was somebody wrapped around him. Arms squeezed his shoulders while a flurry of black hair blocked his vision.<p>

It was Joyce, he knew that much. She pulled away, but before Clint could say anything, she was kissing him. All over his face. Forehead, eyebrows, eyelids, nose, chin, cheeks, temples, even his hair. Everywhere but the lips. These kisses left saliva all over the archer, but he didn't mind. It was sweet.

"Thank you thank you THANK YOU!" Joyce breathed put.

Bruce cleared his throat. Embarrassed, she turned. Her cheeks were red.

"Hi." He said.

"Sorry Bruce."

"Eh, I've seen worse things than that."

"Understood, Doctor man."

Joyce turned back to Clint. "Sorry I slobbered on you in front of the team physician."

"It's okay. I'm not worried. It's Tony we have to watch for."

She smiled. "Thank you, again. You're an angel."

Behind them, Bruce began to chuckle. "Yeah. Right. Angel. Do you even know what this guy did to your boss?"

"What'd he do?" Joyce asked.

"Had him held down and then pressed a pointy, poisoned, grappling arrow to his crotch. Threatened to shoot if he didn't give you compensation money. Even the other guy felt his junk retract."

She raised an eyebrow. "The other guy?"

"You don't know who this is?" Clint asked, shocked.

"The staff doctor?"

"Well that too. Joyce this is the Hulk! Or the man who turns into him."

Her jaw dropped. "Really?"

The curly haired man gave her a small, bitter smile. "Guilty as charged."

"But you seem so normal. I didn't think the Hulk... I never saw footage of the big green guy turning into... Well YOU!" She paused. "I feel like this is not coming out as I intended. I apologize."

He shrugged. "Doesn't bother me. Learn something new every day. I turn into an enormous green rage monster, your boyfriend shoots guys in the dick with his arrows."

"He's not my..." and then she remembered the original topic of conversation. "Wait, you did what?"

Joyce had been so distracted by the new information she'd learned to retain the main point.

"Yeah. I almost killed your boss with an arrow to his crotch. Didn't shoot. Just threatened. Something tells me he'll never harass a woman again. Things like that tend to... dissuade from that sort of behavior."

Joyce looked at him for several moments.

"Can I take you out to dinner, Clint Barton?"

AUTHORS NOTE: HOPE YOU ALL ENJOYED SO FAR! THANKS FOR READING AND SUPPORTING!


	10. Chapter 10

Joyce taken a few hours to herself before they went to the restaurant. It was a lovely little French place called "La Val De Loire". Joyce insisted on taking Clint there, saying the food was so damn good that one would happily explode before claiming they were full.

He'd test that claim.

The archer had dressed in black dress pants, a button up shirt, and a black blazer. As Clint found out, he was severely underdressed.

* * *

><p>Joyce had never spent this much money in one day before. Really she hadn't. The woman stared intently at her new nails, acrylic and painted a delicate shade of creme. Her toes matched, and were shown off in brand new black silk heels. They elevated her height by four inches. High enough to be sexy, but not so high as to be those "fuck-me" heels. They were classy, with thick bands of the silk stretching over her foot in a criss-cross formation. She adored them.<p>

Her hair was professionally straightened and then teased into a bun. It shined from the product the stylist put into it.

The dress she wore was new as well. Deep red, long-sleeved of course. It was velvet, giving it both a lovely texture and an eye-catching shimmery appearance. The neckline was designed to criss- cross as well, creating a V-neck. It showed just the right amount of cleavage. The skirt was long, but split at the hip on one side.

Joyce never thought she'd ever get to wear something like this. Even her jewellery was beautiful. Not rubies, but garnets. Tear-drop earrings, a matching choker, and even a bracelet.

The make-up was professional as well. Her lips were a deep ruby red, cheeks a delicate pink. Her eyes were cloaked in smoky eyeshadow, accentuating the bright blue of her irises. All in all, she spent about two-thousand.

But it was worth it when Clint saw her.

* * *

><p>His jaw dropped. Was- was that JOYCE? JOYCE Joyce? The archer was floundering for the right words. Vocabulary failing him. She approached him outside the restaurant. It had a sign in cursive writing, dark blue. There were a few tables right outside the window. It was a lot smaller than he'd expected.<p>

"Hey Clint." She greeted.

"Uh... hi. You... You look... incredible."

She gave him a little smile. "Thanks to you. Now come on, it's time for you to experience the best Fench food Manhattan has to offer."

Taking his hand, she led him into the place. The floor was an attractive hardwood, reflective with its cleanliness. The entire right wall was actually a mirror, creating a parallel to the interior and stretching out the scenery. Along the other wall was a series of old French posters, advertising wines and fashions and cigarettes. Clint estimated that these were from the twenties or thirties. Above each individual table, there were no booths, was a crimson chandelier. They caught the low light of their bulbs beautifully, and sent little red specks of light dancing across the glasses and mirror. The tables were near the walls, a large expansion of floor exposed.

A French song played in the background.

"Wow." Clint whispered.

"I know." Joyce replied. "I was only here three times before, and it was years ago. Still as gorgeous as I remember.

This was when the hostess arrived. "Table for two?" She asked in a heavy French accent.

Joyce nodded. The woman, older with all her blonde hair pulled back in a bun, directed them to a little square table. She handed each of them a leather-bound menu. On the front cover it read the name of the restaurant in gold lettering.

"Are we having the complete dinner? It comes with soup or salad, dinner, and your choice of coffee and dessert. Or are we having dinner a la carte?"

Joyce smiled. "Nous allons tous les deux être d'avoir le dîner complet. Je le traiter à un bon repas. Quel est votre soupe du jour? "

Both the eyes of the hostess and Clint widened. "Vous parlez français?" Asked the woman.

"Oiu madame."

"Uh... What are you two talking about?"

"I'm asking what the soup of the day is."

"It's a hot potato soup with boiled garlic." She said this in English for Clints' benefit.

"I'll take it."

"Et vous madame?"

"Même, s'il vous plaît."

She nodded, walking away. Clint stared at Joyce, gaping. "Where on Earth did you learn that?"

"The French? Well, I decided to take one of those Roestta Stone programs . A good way to kill time, it looks good on a resume, and well... I've always wanted to go to France." She explained, smiling sweetly.

"Like Paris?"

"Not just Paris. I've always wanted to spend a month or so touring the French countryside, maybe in Loire Valley. Really study the culture."

The archer was surprised. "You're more interesting than you lead on, Joyce. An considering your personality, that's saying something."

The lovely lady waved a hand in his direction dismissively. The different woman, a bit large with dark hair, came with two bowls on stems. They looked like ceramic wine glasses.

"Enjoy. I will be back to take your order."

She left the two alone. Clint took a spoonful of the white goop. "Time to test the reputation of this oh-so-delicious food."

"Be my guest." Joyce replied.

Clint let the pureed potatoes slide down his tongue...And...

* * *

><p>"Hey, what happened to my soup?" He asked about two minutes later.<p>

"You ate it."

"But..." He looked at his watch.

Joyce giggled. "See what I mean?"

"I do, I do. So what do you think I should get? You know the menu better than I do."

"The Beef Bourgiugnon. It's soaked in wine sauce and served with pureed carrots."

He nodded. "Okay. You're the expert."

Just at this moment, the waitress returned to collect the bowls and take their respective orders. She set the empty bowls on a tray, taking out a pad of paper.

"What will we be having tonight?" She looked to Clint.

"Uh... the beef bourguignon. Please."

"Excellent. And you ma'am?"

"Juste obtenir deux ordannonces du bœuf bourguignon, gentiment."

Smiling brightly, the waitress took their menus and disappeared. Clint had an idea that people appreciate when you speak their language.

"What did you say?" He asked.

"I asked her to get us two orders."

He nodded. Joyce took a sip of water, which had been poured into the elegant crystal glass as they arrived.

"Clint, can I ask you something?"

"Shoot."

"Dangerous words from an assassin." She commented slyly.

He rolled his eyes. "You know what I mean. Ask away."

Joyce sat back in her chair, setting her glass gingerly upon the table. Her face grew serious. "I appreciate what you've done. Really I do. And I'm not saying Jimson didn't deserve what happened, but... May I ask... Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why did you do this? Why help me? At least why you went to the extremes you did."

Clint stared at her, utterly baffled. Why would he help her? How could he not help her?! Who in their right mind would let that sort of thing continue?! There was a strange silence for several seconds. She was waiting for an answer. Clint had one for her.

"Joyce... of course I helped you. I've seen a lot of evil in the world. More than I care to discuss, honestly. And I refuse... REFUSE... to let somebody I care about when I can stop it."

He paused. Those guilty images floated back into his mind. It was like a poison. Or a drug. A hateful, spiteful drug. Because he couldn't stop himself. Every life he ended, their terrified faces. Clint told himself to remember those innocent people. He felt as if he was drowning in the guilt. He'd almost forgotten the question he'd been asked.

"When I couldn't even... couldn't stop..."

_Myself._ Clint thought, but did not say.

Joyce did not say anything. She saw the look on his face, and knew it immediately. That was inconsolable, deep, and irreversible guilt. The woman, in that moment, could only empathize. They shared in this type of guilt, though he didn't know it. This was the feeling that made it hard to sleep at night. The wound no psychiatrist could ever hope to heal.

Leaning across the table, Joyce took his hand in hers. As she squeezed it gently, Clint looked up from his lap. He couldn't understand how, but he could feel that Joyce knew what he was feeling. Really knew it. He put his other hand over hers. They had a moment of understanding, looking into one another's eyes...

Joyce remembered her secret, her awful secret, and pulled away. Clint felt that maybe things had gotten too depressing for her. She wasn't ready for his big sack of mental issues.

Putting on a smile, he stood up. "Care to dance?" He asked.

Joyce seemed to contemplate the idea. As if it was some huge decision. But standing, the woman consented. A soft, almost waltz-type song was playing.

Joyce slinked her right arm over his shoulder, while the other was intertwined with his left hand. His right hand was resting tenderly on her hip. She seemed a bit worried. But Clint chalked that up to their proximity.

They began swaying, just back and forth. Nothing really complicated. Clint stepped back, carrying her along with him. She smiled, but it seemed off. He couldn't understand it. Then Clint tried stepping forward... And he nearly crushed Joyce's toes.

"Ow!" She yelped, mostly in surprise.

"Sorry! Sorry... You okay?"

"Yeah." She replied. "Try again?"

"Yep."

Leading her back, Clint pulled her close. He spun her out, only to stumble back as her body weight reeled itself back in. Clint stumbled over his own feet, catching himself on a chair.

"Wow." Joyce said, giggling.

"One more time... please?" Clint asked.

"Of course."

He once more grabbed her hand, pulling Joyce close. But only moments after getting back into the rhythm did the archer trip over his own heel and nearly fall on top of Joyce.

This time she began outright laughing. "You're a terrible dancer, Clint."

"I know. I was hoping I wouldn't fail so much this time."

"... That's ironic as Hell. The assassin who can tip-toe through hostile territory in the dead of night can't keep a rhythm."

He sighed, hanging his head shamefully.

"Oh don't be embarrassed." She said, lifting his chin. "I like it. It's... a humanizing quality. Just ironic."

The smile she gave him was genuine. In fact, it was more like a grin. Clint couldn't help but smile right back. Just then the sound of a clearing throat caught their attention. The pair turned.

"Your food, Madame and monsiuer?"

* * *

><p>The cab drive back to Joyce's apartment was filled with Clints moans of satisfaction. He clutched at his stomach, both full and craving more. Joyce could only pat his shoulder and smile.<p>

"So... Good... What have you done to me?" He asked through the pains of an overstuffed stomach.

"Told you the food was good."

"Want more of that mouse cake."

"I know, I know."

They reached her building. She stepped out, looking at the sky. The sun was down, leaving a beautiful moon in its place. The darkened horizon was dusted with stars. It made Joyce think of home.

"Say?" Clint asked from behind. "Can I ask you a serious question?"

Joyce turned around to see him standing. His face was inquisitive. "Why did you keep working for that trash Jimson?"

"Wh- What?" This caught Joyce off guard. That was not a question she'd prepared an answer for.

"I mean you're amazing. Obviously smart, knowing your way around a French menu and being a better dancer than me... You have so much going for you. Why couldn't you get a better job?"

Now Joyce didn't know what to say. That was a good question. And he deserved an answer. But this time, she couldn't give him a good one.

"Well... there are some things... that don't look good on a resume... And the job market is tough when you're not an ass-kicking super spy."

Before he could get a word in, Joyce gave Clint a kiss on the cheek. "Thanks for everything Clint. I can't you how much it means to me. I'll call you tomorrow, okay?"

He nodded numbly, letting her disappear inside. What was she hiding from him? Maybe he should ask Coulson... He would know...

AUTHOR'S NOTE: THANKS FOR READING AND SUPPORTING! HOPE THIS WAS GOOD! SEE YOU NEXT CHAPTER!


	11. Chapter 11

Joyce stood in the living room of her new apartment. The walls were a sterile, almost futuristic white, decorated with opulent windows and their silky pearl curtains. To her left was the glass door to the small deck, which overlooked the neighborhood from it's fifth floor vantage point. This being the top floor, there was a huge window upon the ceiling, much like something you'd see in a mall or fancy office building. It allowed for natural lighting, but there were other lights for when the sun went down.

Her kitchen area was off in a small corner on the right, just a kitchenette, honestly. But it's modern, functioning equipment (her old place had a dishwasher on its last leg), was perfect. Down the front hall was the doors to her bedroom and the bathroom, as well as a small closet for her towels and cleaning equipment.

Her basic furniture (bed, couch, table, etc.) was set up, along with her electronics. However, along the walls, from the hardwood floors to as high as Joyce could get them, were stacks of boxes, containing her various items of value. This was where Clint came in.

He'd promised to help her move out, but unfortunately had been called on a mission just days before. Joyce of course accused him of convenient timing, and Clint returned with a promise to help her unpack everything. Even had Tony pay for the movers.

The archer knocked upon the door after Joyce had buzzed him into the building. When the woman went to answer, his eyebrows went up.

Joyce was clad in a long-sleeved, pencil gray dress, with a skirt that came down... or up... to a about two inches below her buttocks. And below that were socks... Well more stockings... that had horizontal grey and black stripes. Her legs looked like ringtail lemurs. Her black hair was brought up in a messy bun, held by a black scrunchie.

"Okay... what's with the socks?"

She looked down at her feet. "I like sock-skating on the hardwood. Call me a kid at heart, but I do."

"But why the Tim Burton socks? All the gray and black, and the stripes... might as well call you Joyce Scizzorhands."

She poured out her lower lip. "I like them. Don't judge me." She said, letting him in. "So how was Iraq?"

This, of course, was where he'd gone. Not that she could know much else, but still. He was allowed to tell her the country. Okay... Maybe he wasn't supposed to tell her that either. But Clint wanted to tell her something. He already felt guilty about asking Coulson to look up her file, even though it was logical to do so. There was nothing, the senior agent had said, and that was that.

"Hot. 115°. I got chased by a Camel Spider. Other than that, fine."

"You got chased by a what?" She asked.

"Camel Spider."

"Tell me about it." She inquired, taking a box down.

"Well I was lying in the sand while waiting for some orders, just minding my own business, when all of a sudden... this... this THING popped up out of the ground. I saw it out of the corner of my eye, and fucking bolted."

Joyce couldn't help but laugh. "Then what?"

"I was sprinting like a little kid, but the thing just kept coming and coming. Finally I made it back to the jeep... And as it turns out, it just wanted the shade. It'd been chasing my shadow."

"Aww. It wanted a friend."

"What an awful existence. Just kill yourself, spider."

Joyce slapped his shoulder. "You dick!"

"But it's true!"

"What I find so funny is that you, the big bad assassin, ran away from an itty bitty spider."

He pointed at her accusingly. "Itty bitty my ass! You wanna see what one of these things looks like?"

"Sure."

Taking out his phone, Clint looked up "Camel Spider" on Google images. With a devious grin, he pulled up a picture of said insect resting upon somebody's hand. Which it seemed to take up the entirety of.

"Here." He said, holding out the picture.

Joyce recoiled, cringing. "Oh! Oh God!"

"I know."

"Ugh... it's all hairy and... Jesus Christ on a Cracker those fangs!"

"Still itty bitty to you, Joyce?"

"No, no. You're off the hook on this one. Just... never show me that again."

"Deal." He said, reclaiming his phone. "Now let's get to work."

* * *

><p>A few hours later, the two collapsed onto the couch. After hours of unpacking all her nic-knacks, books, eating utensils, CDs, Blu-Rays, China, various little plant-pots, and basically anything else one could think of to be unpacked, the two were exhausted and rather hungry.<p>

"Do me a favor?" Clint asked.

"Yeah?"

"Please never,ever, ever move again."

"I'll try." She replied.

The two looked up at the sky-window, watching the soft drizzle of rain roll down the glass. By now the sky had darkened substantially, it was around six in the evening. Joyce lazily grabbed her cell off the coffee table.

"Say, do you like Seasame Chicken and fried rice?"

"Right now I could like just about anything. So yes, please."

"Great."

She ordered the food from a little place just up the road, something called "China Summer" or something. When she hung up, Joyce turned to her male companion.

"Food'll be here in about fifteen minutes."

"Yay! Food!"

Joyce giggled. He was kinda cute when he was tired. She turned on the television, and began flipping through channels.

"Wanna watch something while we wait?"

"Sure." He replied. "What are you in the mood for?"

"Doesn't matter. It's really background noise."

"Throw it on the sci-fy channel. I hear there's a marathon of those really cheesy creature movies."

"Perfect!" She said, throwing it on something called "Megasnake vs. Dinocroc." Wooden acting, horrendous special effects, plot with an IQ of about 6, stupid title... the works!

They chatted lightly for a bit before the food arrived. After paying the delivery guy, she sat next to Clint and handed him his main dish, along with a can of Pepsi. The two ate greedily, devouring their respective meals. They didn't talk much while eating, because when you're hungry, nobody is in the mood for chatter. But after all the Seaseme Chicken was gone, it was time for the ever popular fortune cookie!

Joyce grabbed them out of the bottom of the bag, tossing Clint his.

"You know, I don't know why they serve these things with Chinese food. Fortune cookies were invented in America." He said.

"I know. But shit happens. Tell me, what's your fortune?"

He cracked it open. "It says, 'You bring happiness to friends and co-workers.'" He let out an amused snort. "Yeah, sure."

"Hey... You bring happiness to me." Joyce corrected, shooting him a wounded puppy look.

Despite knowing she was being silly, Clint felt a little bit of warmth at the statement. And it tied his tongue for a moment.

Well... uh... my co-workers will verify that I'm a pain in the ass."

"But you're a lovable pain in the ass."

"Gee, thanks." Clint replied. "What's your fortune?"

Joyce opened the cookie, snatching the little slip of paper out. She read it, and immediately blushed.

"What does it say?"

She handed it to him. "Love birds fly high this spring." He read aloud.

Trying to avoid a very awkward, possibly romantic moment, Clint chose his next words to be dismissive. "See, undeniable proof that fortune cookies are completely full of crap. You know what we need?"

"What do we need?"

"Honest fortune cookies." He said. "You open it, and it'd say 'Aww... You have no life.' Or 'Pay your rent or get thrown out.' You know, real fortunes."

This made Joyce smile. "I like the first one. Or better yet, they'd be customized for each person's life. Like... yours would be "you're a lovable pain in the ass.""

Clint rolled his eyes. "What would Tony's be, if we're going by this idea?"

"You're not as great as you think you are. Or "You're a cocky son of a Bitch.""

"Who steals phones." Clint added.

"Okay, what would mine be?" Joyce asked, smiling.

Clint gave her a sly grin. "You're a lovable weirdo."

"I am not a weirdo!"

"You spend your time with me. There's a streak of weird in there somewhere."

She flung out her hand. "You wound me."

"Okay, okay... How about... "You're full of surprises."

Her eyes darkened for a moment, only a moment, but long enough for Clint to notice it. It worried him. Then she smiled that slightly off-kilter smile. "That works."

Clint waited for her to say something more on the subject, but nothing more was said. So the two went silent for a bit. Joyce sat with Clint, putting her legs up on his lap. She told him that he was her footrest.

The sky dimmed into night, the two still watching movies in the dark. Clint couldn't help but gaze at the shadows dancing over Joyce's cloaked legs, which invited him to advance further up. The the teasing bit of skin between her dress and the stockings was keeping his full attention. Joyce had eventually fallen asleep, chest heaving in the light of the tv.

This was when Clint decoded it was time to go. He woke her up, hugged her, and began to leave.

"Clint?" She called.

"Yes Joyce?"

"Will you be going on anymore mission soon?"

"Why do you ask?" He inquired.

"I... I just want to plan around your comings and goings. Because when you leave, I don't know when... or if, you're coming back."

He nodded solemnly, but the gears in his head were turning. "Coulson, my superior, said something about France..."

"Aww, I'm jealous."

"Don't be. It's not like it's much fun on those missions."

"At least there won't be any more spiders." Joyce said.

"No. But... there will be mimes."

She paused. "I'm sorry. Yeah, that's probably worse."

He chuckled. "Night, Joyce."

"Night Clint."

And with that, he departed... with an idea in mind.

AUTHORS NOTE: SORRY FOR NOT UPDATING SOONER. MOVING MYSELF, ACTUALLY. IT'S NOT FUN. ANYWAY, HOPE YOU ALL ENJOYED SO FAR! THANK YOU FOR SUPPORTING AND READING! AND I PUT ANOTHER REFERENCE TO JR (JEREMY RENNER) IN THIS CHAPTER, JUST CAUSE I LIKE TO DO THAT. SPOT IT IF YOU CAN! :)


	12. Chapter 12

Clint was being debriefed on his six week mission to France. There were some high profile arms dealers out in Loire Valley, of all places. Selling some regular shit, AK-47s and some grenade launchers, as well as the really illegal stuff. The type of things you could only get a hold of with friends in high places. Really high places. National threat high places.

SHIELD had gotten a lead that some of these guys were using wineries as their cover for the dealings. And Fury wanted one of his top agents on the job.

"You're going deep undercover, Barton." Coulson said gravely. "You're going to have to pretend to be a transfer student, receiving training in being a sommelier. A wine steward."

"But sir, I don't speak French. And Natasha's unavailable."

His usual partner for this type of thing, Natasha was out on her own mission in Madrid. He didn't know much about it, but was disgruntled at the inconvenience. She was a good companion, and happened to be multi lingual.

"We'll pair you up with another agent who does."

The prospect did not settle well with the archer. Ever since his... Loki... things haven't exactly been great with the other agents. In laymens terms, they hated him. Hated him like most people hate Nazis. It's not like Clint was one of those pricks who cares about his image, but when you have to trust another person with your life and trust that they'll translate things correctly, it's best that the person not think of you as a traitor and a murderer.

Just not good fodder for healthy teamwork, you know?

Coulson sensed his displeasure. After knowing somebody for so many years, it's easy to read their body language. The senior agent sighed.

"Look, Barton, I know this isn't your ideal partnership. But this is a secret agency, you must be willing to make sacrifices. Unless you have a better idea..."

Clints eyes brightened as a lightbulb went off in his brain. "As a matter of fact sir, I do."

* * *

><p>Joyce was dumbfounded. "You want me to go on a mission with you?"<p>

"Yes." Clint confirmed.

"To France?"

"Affirmative."

She was waiting, just waiting for his expression to turn from serious to hysterical. This was a joke. It had to be. All the Bullshit with everything being classified, and suddenly she was invited to tag along?

"So I'm supposed to be your undercover translator?"

"Well, you'll be an actual student, so it's not really undercover. But yes, you'll be my translator. It works perfectly, because they'll have no reason to suspect you. And that restaurant you're working for will be thrilled about your learning to be a sommelier."

Joyce narrowed her eyes at him incredulously. "And your superior allowed this?"

He nodded, grinning. "Absolutely. Being a civilian, this'll make both of us look less suspicious. And since you actually work for a restaurant, it'll look even more legitimate."

Climate left out the part where he spent a few hours arguing with Fury on Joyce's behalf, making a case for her to come along, practically begging. He also omitted the fact that even though Coulson got on board a lot faster, he still had a lot of doubts. Clint knew that when he met her, he'd feel more at ease.

After all, who could resist Joyce?

"My S.O., Coulson, wants to meet with you and give you some basic weapons training. Just handguns. It's really more for self defense than anything. If we keep our cool, there shouldn't be any real danger."

This was when Joyce belived him. "You're not pulling my leg, are you?"

"Nope. It's the truth. I'm asking you to come on a mission with me. So... Will you?"

"Clint... I mean I'm honored, and I want to come, it's just... Why ME?"

Clint put his hand over hers. "Because you're the only one I trust."

Joyce could hear the sincerity in his voice. And just for a moment, she caught the underlying tones of guilt. Guilt and sorrow. It worried, yet strangely comforted her.

"So you'll do it?" Clint asked.

She smiled. "Yes."

"Great! To the tower, then!" He said in a mock-dramatic voice, pulling Joyce's hand.

* * *

><p>So this was Agent Coulson. A tall, older gentleman with a receeding hairline and blue eyes. He wore a standard business suit, from the tie to the dress shoes. The agent wore a small, welcoming smile that looked like it could calm a storm. Skin was a bit wrinkled, but not too much. Joyce guessed the man was in his mid forties. Hardly looked like the deadly, kick-ass-take-names type. But hey, Joyce had been wrong before.<p>

He met the two in the training room, with his eyes studying Joyce very intently. As if he could see any hidden motive just by her gait. Well, that was what Joyce got from him.

"Good afternoon, Ms. Rivers." He greeted, holding out his hand.

"Pleasure to meet you, sir."

He looked between her and Clint. "I see our agent Barton has taken quite a shine to you. He insisted that you come along on this mission. He says you're fluent in French?"

She nodded. "Je ne parle bien français, de l'agent."

"Well done, Ms. Rivers. I'm impressed."

Clint smiled. "She's great, isn't she?"

"Let's see how well she handles a firearm, then we'll see about that."

"She grows on you, Coulson. Trust me. You'll like her just as much as everybody else does."

Joyce rolled her eyes. "Oh Clint, stop. You're embarrassing me."

"But I'm having so much fun showing you off."

She put her head into her hands to cover up the little smile that had spread across her face.

Coulson looked between the two of them, studying this little interaction. He did not comment on it immediately, but did give a knowing, if subtle, grin. This was the happiest he'd seen Barton in months, and it was a very nice change of pace. Coulson knew there was something between the two of them. That was a good thing, very good. Sadly, for now, Barton had his job to do, and Coulson had to save his advice for later. Well... most of it.

"Alright, well, Barton, you go into the debriefing room. Fury's on screen, he'll give you the specifics on wineries and where you'll be staying. I'll give Ms. Rivers her crash course in firearms safety."

Though the agent clearly wasn't thrilled with his separation from Joyce, Clint dutifully nodded, taking his leave.

"Don't teach her how to kill me!" He called just before exiting the room entirely.

Joyce turned to the senior agent. "Was he always such a smartass?"

"Was when I met him, and that was some years ago. He probably was before that, and it'll probably never go away."

She nodded, smiling. "That's fine by me. So, where do we begin?"

"With this." Coulson said, pulling put a handheld gun and offering it to her.

Joyce looked at it curiously. She never much cared for guns, and she had her reasons. But she wasn't about to put herself at risk. Swallowing her prejudice, Joyce took the gun.

"This is your basic 9-mil. Pistol. Almost every police officer in America carries one of these. I'm going to teach you how to hold it, load and unload it, clean it, fire it, Inman it when it stalls, and how to keep yourself and Barton safe from harm."

She nodded calmly.

"Good. Now, you see this little round thing on the side?" He inquired, turning the pistol on its left side. "This is the safety. If it's red, that means it's on. Black, off. You turn it in order to switch between the two."

"Okay, so what happens when it's on?"

"That means the bullet won't fire of you pull the trigger. It's very important that you keep the safety on until you intend to shoot it. This'll keep everyone around you safe." He explained.

"Never point the gun at anything or anybody unless you intend to shoot it. Whether the safety is on or off, this is a vital piece of information. You can't just go waving it about."

Joyce made a mental note of that. "Yes sir."

"And while we're on that note, here's the most important thing. Even when you're pointing the gun, unless you intend to shoot, never, EVER, rest your finger on the trigger. There have more accidents due to people not following that rule than I care to count."

Coulson shook his head, remembering so many agents in training. So many trips to the emergency room. So many stupid, reckless kids.

He went on to teach her the basics of cleaning it, the importance of lubricating the barrel. He taught her about the different types of jams guns get, and how to handle them accordingly. He taught her all the little things one needed to know about a firearm, but of course the most fun thing, the one everybody wants to hear about, is the actual shooting.

"With a pistol, you want to hold your arms out like this, legs equidistant from one another. Shoulder length apart."

He was behind Joyce, helping to steady her grip and get into the correct stance. Once she was positioned correctly, Coulson stepped away.

"Good, good. Now, aim for the target. Line up the sites, you'll have to move your head a bit."

She did so. "Got it."

"Great. Now you're ready to fire. Just be prepared for a bit of recoil. Not much, but enough to where you'll want to brace yourself. Empty the magazine, and we'll see how you did."

She nodded, taking a deep breath. Joyce lined up the two dots on top of the gun, aiming for the paper target about fifteen feet away. Ready... aim...

BANG! Through her earmuffs, which were standard to wear at any firing range, she heard the gun go off. There were a couple reverberations through Joyce's arms, but it wasn't as bad as she'd feared.

She fired nine more times, then, see the magazine was empty, she gingerly set the gun on the little platform in front of her.

"Let's see how you did." Coulson said, pushing a button to bring the target back.

It shocked both of them where the bullet holes were. Six were very close to the center of the chest, all fatal wounds. Two were in the head, kill shots. One was in the shoulder. That'd slow somebody down, at least. And one... ooh.

"You shot this poor man in the crotch." Coulson stated.

Joyce shrugged. "He had it coming."

The agent chuckled. But his face soon turned from amused to serious. "Joyce, may I call you Joyce?"

"Absolutely."

"Thank you. Joyce, I feel I must be honest with you."

"What about?" She suddenly felt very tense, a knot in her stomach was forming.

"Well, since you are coming on this mission... I had to check your file."

Joyce felt a bomb go off in her brain. She clenched her hands into fists, her knuckles turning white. Face paled. Stomach drop. Her back tensed up, and she prepared for the accusations and rejection. He'd been putting up a polite front, but the facade was over.

"Hey, No no no. I didn't mean to frighten you." He said in a calm, reassuring tone.

Joyce was confused. And Coulson saw this. It broke his heart that her automatic reaction was to go white with fear of reprisal.

"Joyce, I didn't tell Clint, if that's what you're thinking. This is strictly between you and I. What's in your file is none of our concern as an agency, it poses no threat to anybody. I have no doubt that you'll be a wonderful companion for Clint on this mission."

At hearing this, Joyce relaxed, finally taking a much needed breath. "Why bring it up, then?"

"Because I thought you should know. And because... Well... now this is just my advice... I think you ought to tell him."

The idea made her shiver with fear. Tell Clint? No, no. She'd rather eat broken glass.

"I know it's hard for you. I can tell people haven't reacted well to your... secret... in the past. But trust me when I say Clint will understand. He wouldn't judge you. For one, he'd have no right to. Secondly, he's not like that as a person. Thirdly... He cares about you. A lot. I can see it in the way he acts around you." Coulson smiled.

"You make him happy. And I think you two are good for each other."

Sighing, Joyce gave a small nod. "Thank you for... for not saying anything. And the advice. But... I don't know if I can. Tell him, that is."

He nodded. "Will you at least think about it? He deserves to know."

As if on cue, the archer in question reappeared through the doorway. "So, how'd she do?"

"See for yourself." Coulson said, offering the target.

"Damn." He said. "Remind me to never get on your bad side, Joyce."

"Never get on my bad side, Clint." She reminded him.

He smiled. "You smartass."

She shrugged. "You're a bad influence, what can I say? So, when are we leaving?"

"Tomorrow morning. We'll be on a plane by ten thirty. You might wanna pack some things before we leave."

"Okay then. I'll get right on that."

"I'll take you home?" Clint offered.

"That'd be great."

"Fantastic! Let's get going then."

Joyce smiled brightly. Turning to Coulson, she said a kind goodbye. Clint had already begun to stroll away, so Joyce took the opportunity to whisper: "I'll think about it." Before leaving.

That was a good sign to Coulson.

AUTHORS NOTE: THANKS FOR READING AND SUPPORTING! HOPE YOU ALL ENJOYED THE STORY SO FAR! SEE YOU NEXT CHAPTER! ANY GUESSES ON JOYCE'S SECRET?


	13. Chapter 13

Clint was to be picking Joyce up from her apartment the following morning. It was around 8:15, which was a fair time, as far as Clint was concerned. Normally he'd be up, debriefed, stocked with weapons and ready to go by 6:00 am. Sometimes 5:00. So this was a wonderful change of pace. The two had to be on the plane by 10:30, so it was still best to leave a couple hours earlier. As he walked, Clint went over the tasks that needed to be completed and at what times. After being an agent for so long, it becomes second nature to do so. It was a fairly productive habit in life, as well as on a mission.

Alright, they had to be at the tower by 8:45. From there they'd be picked up by a chopper and taken to the base. He knew they'd probably be there by 9:10. Then it was imperative that they get together their fake passports, ammo, essentials and such. Clint would go over maintenance and flight time, which he suspected was about two days, considering the distance between New York and Paris was around about 3,360 miles or so. Luckily the standard planes issued to agents by SHIELD had an extraordinary m/pg, higher than what most people in America, or any country really, suspected a plane could be capable of.

Anyway, they'd have all that done by 10:15. Then it was time to put all the supplies into the cargo hold. That shouldn't take more than five minutes. Go over anything else missed, and be up in the air by 10:30. Yep, that checks out.

He was approaching the familiar wood door, which resided very near the end of the hall. The walls around him were a light, banana creme color, which sort of made him hungry.

Clint knocked. After a full minute with no answer, he knocked again. Nothing. An alarm rang in the back of Clints head. Something was wrong, he could tell. Something was very wrong. Going into defense mode, Clint kept his every sense alert as he reached for the doorknob. Much to his chagrin, it was unlocked. Oh no.

It was uncharacteristically dark, all the curtains drawn and lights out. The only light was coming from the sky window, the early morning Sun highlighting the couch in front of the television.

Clint did not call Joyce's name, it would be stupid to call attention to himself, but instead tip toed further in, checking to make sure nobody was behind him.

He prayed to whatever God there was that Joyce was unharmed, or at least not severely injured... or worse. No, no, Clint knew better than to start assuming the worst and let emotion block his sense of judgement. But that didn't mean his stomach wasn't growing knotted and sick at the possibilities lurking just ahead of him.

Finally he reached the couch, mentally preparing himself for anything.

Joyce was lying on said furniture, wearing nothing but her incredibly high striped socks and a little bit of blanket to cover the vital split of her legs. Her long hair masked her breasts.

Okay, he'd prepared himself for anything except that.

"J- J- Joyce...?" He could barely bring himself to say her name.

At first he thought she'd fallen asleep like this, for whatever strange reason, but her smile, both innocent and mischievous, shot that idea down like an AK-47 to a bundle of balloons.

She shifted her position, sitting up with her precious parts still covered. Joyce leaned forward.

"Morning Clint." She said as nonchalantly as possible, all things considered.

"Why- What- What are you... doing? Like that?"

She smiled wider, that cute little lopsided upturn of her lips seeming so... sensual.

"I'm saying thank you, Clint."

"For what?"

"Everything. For the apartment, the job, the trip to France, everything."

"Yeah, well, we better get cracking on leaving for that trip... I mean you can't really be late for a government mission. So... Why don't you get dressed... we can leave in a couple minutes."

Joyce poured out her lips. "I was thinking YOU could get UN-dressed, and stay here with me for more than a few minutes."

"Uh... we won't make it to the plane if we follow that plan." Clint said weakly.

"Maybe we could re-schedule?" Joyce suggested, moving in closer.

Clint backed up a step. "Coulson wouldn't like it."

"Well he's an adult, he can take it."

"He's also my handler."

"I could be a great handler." She said, winking. "Of certain things."

"Uh... What I mean is he's my superior." Clint could smack himself, leaving her open for such an obvious innuendo. "And I don't think that he'd approve of us being late."

"You're awfully hung up on that mission, aren't you?"

Joyce stood up, dropping the blanket completely. The archer was at a loss for words. Joyce was... She had... and she pushed the long black hair away, revealing two very lovely breasts. Joyce was naked. She was naked in all her naked nakedness, nakeding everywhere.

..Clints vocabulary was kind of out to lunch on this one, as one could easily tell.

"Still want to be on time for the mission?"

She tilted her head to the side, twisting her hair between her fingers. Joyce's plump lips were pouting out. Clint was weighing his options. There was no movement from either person for several minutes.

Clint looked at his watch. 8:30. They were going to be very late. Very very late. Well if they left right now and made up some story about traffic-

"Screw the mission." Clint decided, jumping the naked Joyce with no hesitation.

The two fell onto the couch, with Clint rapidly trying to disrobe himself while at the same time caressing Joyce. His left hand squeezed her hip, realising the silky flesh. The other attempted to and failed to unbuckle his pants. Joyce nibbled on the tender skin between his shoulder and neck, sucking it and biting. Since Clint couldn't get his pants down, Joyce did it herself, and with much more ease.

Now she ran her hands beneath his shirt, pulling it off as she did. Joyce moved her head down to suckle his right nip. A shiver went down Clints spine, and a throb began between His legs, causing the blood to leave his head and go... Well... to his other head.

Joyce had stopped sucking, and instead brought her lips up to his ear. Her breath was warm, moist. Down further, the fabric of her socks teased the bare flesh of Clints legs.

He couldn't stand it. He placed his hand between her legs, teasing the cusp of her entrance with his fingers. She gasped in extracy.

"Clint..." She breathed.

Mmm. Music to his ears. He slid two inside, pumping. His thumb pressed her clit like a pleasure button, moving it as he so pleased. She was moaning.

"Clint." This time, his name was louder.

She was squirming, getting impatient. Clint pulled out, placing his hands at her sides. He lowered himself, ready to make love to this beautiful, beautiful woman.

"Clint!" His name was louder still.

"Patience, Joyce." He said, giving her an amused smile.

"Wake up, Clint!" She said, and Clint felt his arms being shaken.

Huh? "WAKE UP!"

The archer found himself sitting on the very plane he and Joyce were supposed to be on. Joyce was beside him, fully clothed and extremely amused. He looked down, finding that he looked as if he'd swallowed enough Viagra to kill a horse.

"Gah!"

"Some dream you were having there."

Clint could barely find the words... Oh God... Oh God...

"Ugh..." He put his head in his hands.

"I assume you weren't dreaming about camel spiders."

The hero could have just about thrown himself out of the plane.

AUHTORS NOTE: I KNOW, I KNOW. I SUCK. ANYWAY, THANKS FOR READING AND SUPPORTING! I PROMISE NO MORE TEASEING LITTLE CHAPTERS LIKE THESE. HOPE THIS WAS GOOD FOR WHAT IT WAS!


	14. Chapter 14

Cint quickly crossed his legs, attempting to cover up his shame. Joyce was shooting him a very amused smirk, knowing and gloating. He knew he had to think fast if he was going to talk his way out of this... if he was able to.

"How'd you know?" He replied. "I was dreaming about camel spiders. It was terrifying!"

Joyce raised one black eyebrow. "Really?"

"Yes! Oh my God, they were everywhere!"

"Uh huuuuh." She didn't buy it. Not for a minute. But... "Is that why you were panting? Moaning? Was it running, was that it?" ... Why not play along.

He nodded fervently. She was buying it! Thank you God. "Exactly! There were hoards of them! As big my face!"

The lovely woman feigned concern. "Are you alright, Clint? That must have been awful!"

"I'm fine now." He said. The dead giveaway between his legs had calmed down.

"That's good, Clint. I don't want you having nightmares on me."

For a moment, he wondered if she was toying with him. But he brushed that thought off.

"I appreciate the concern." He said as earnestly as he could.

"Of course." She said, with a big fake sweet smile on her face. He's terrible at lying, she thought. How long could she keep it up? This was really fun.

"Say, was I in this dream?"

"Huh?" Clint offered lamely, unprepared for that question.

"Was I in the dream?"

"Uh... Why do you ask?"

Clint was praying for the plane to land. He wanted this conversation to be over, and fast.

"I heard you sort of... calling my name. It was more like a moan than anything."

The archer was struck with inspiration. Luckily, there was no lightbulb to give away his ruse.

"Oh, I must have been... You know... hoping for a rescue. And I got one, cause you woke me up."

"I'm touched." Joyce said dryly.

The aircraft began its descent. Clint was extremely relieved. "We better buckle up, we're landing soon."

"Alright." She fastened the harness, which criss-crossed her front. Protecting. Lifting. Supporting. Clint felt a twitch down below, remembering his embarrassing fantasy.

Now that the conversation had died down, he had time to actually contemplate his dream. And it's ramifications. It was bad that he'd had a dream like that about Joyce, no question. This type of thing complicates any relationship, and especially now, that was the last thing he needed. The last thing either of them needed.

But what did it mean? Was he having feelings for her? Was that it? Was he possibly- No. No. That's not it. Clint decided he needed a different perspective, and fast. So a part of him came to a new conclusion. It was a dream. Nothing more, nothing less, it said. The product of a natural physical desire and the subconscious mind's ability to channel such desires. Don't read so much into it, Barton. You have a job to do.

The plane landed. They took out their luggage, and took a special, unmarked SHIELD car to the first hotel. Joyce seemed to have forgotten the incident, much to Clints' relief.

Much NOT to his relief was the fact that the two of them were to share this first room. It had been decided that it in Joyce's best interest to stay in an adjoining room, with Barton next to her. For safety precautions, purely. But, unfortunately, this hotel was full, and Clint had to settle for one room. Two beds, thank God.

Joyce set her suitcase in a chair by the door and took in her surroundings. The floor of this room was a rich, royal red, plush carpet. It felt amazing between her toes. There was a bathroom opposite of her, closed off from the rest of the space. The two singles were fitted with crimson and creme sheets, three pillows each. There was a lamp between them, brass with a white shade. It stood on top of a nightstand, a dark wood.

There was a TV, but Joyce figured she wouldn't be watching much of it.

"So class starts tomorrow?" Joyce asked, wanting to be sure.

"Yep. We should get up early, prepare ourselves." His hand rested on the case he had set on the bed, filled with firearms.

Joyce nodded.

"I'll get to cleaning these. Why don't you take a shower, relax a bit. I'm sure you've got a serious case of jetlag."

"You say that is if you don't."

He did, he really did. Clint was ready to just pass out on his bed. But for some reason, he felt compelled to stick it out. Stick it out for Joyce.

"Me? Nah, I'm used to it. After so long, you just... stop feeling it." He lied.

"Right." Joyce replied. "Because you're the big, bad assassin."

He shot her a triumphant smile. "At your service, m'lady."

"My my, you're cocky this evening." She said. "Seems out of character for you, Clint."

"I'm excited." Was his explanation.

Joyce had gotten out some pajamas, and had her uniform for tomorrow hung up in the closet. She was going to bathe, Lord knew she needed to. It'd been two whole days since she's had a shower. Joyce remembered something she'd been told a long time ago, about the way she smelled after so long... like a field of wild onions.

It brought back memories. But she shook them off. Instead, she opted to shoot her comeback at Clint.

"Excited, huh?"

"Yep."

"That why you had a hard-on during our flight? Was that pre-mission excitement, too?" Joyce asked with a giggle.

Crap. Well, he'd been caught. How could he possibly recapture some of his dignity after that one?

"Well... uh... Yes. I was so ready for action that- uh..."

"Your arrow was ready to fire?" Joyce took the opportunity to complete his thought.

"Yeah." He said, trying to sound nonchalant and failing.

She smiled warmly at him. "Don't be embarrassed, Clint. It happens to us all."

Before he could say anything else, Joyce had disappeared into the bathroom. Clint decided then and there that this was the end of his embarrassment for the day. He was going to eat, bathe and go to bed. And, by the luck of whatever force controls this odd, somewhat lovestruck universe, he got his wish.

* * *

><p>Speaking of luck, the forces of the universe seem to have struck Joyce with her own nocturnal adventures, not that dissimilar from Clints.<p>

She'd gone to bed in her crimson cot, and awoken on some faraway beach. The colors were distorted, making everything somewhat darker and gritty. But Joyce did not notice. She saw a castle overhead, on a brooding cliff far off from her standpoint. It was old, a legend said, older than time. She supposed she lived there, but Joyce wasn't sure. She didn't want to.

Darkened waves washed up at her feet. This was when she realized what she was wearing. Joyce was dressed in something Victorian, a sort of cream dress with lacy black trim, knickers underneath, and a red corset. The sleeves were spoofed from the elbow up, but straight afterwards until you came to the wrists. Joyce was also wearing black gloves. All her hair was kept in a bonnet, piled up under its silken sheen.

The day was chilly, so these clothes weren't a bother. Except the corset. That was painful, nearly cracking her poor ribcage.

Why was she here? Why had she come? To collect seashells? Was she making a gift? What is that splashing noise?

Joyce looked over to see a brilliant flash of purple dance across her field of vision. It disappeared in mere moments. She blinked. What on Earth was that? Joyce walked onto the suddenly nearby pier, making her way across the rotting boards of wood. As she reached the end, the purple reappeared.

Against her better judgement, Joyce got on her knees, leaning over the waves. It was high tide. The water was a mere foot away. Where was the purple? She liked it. The color of royalty. Rare. She leaned further...

And was suddenly face to face with a man. She toppled back. "Gah!" She would've said, but in her dreams she had no voice.

The man swam to the side. Didn't speak, but looked concerned. Joyce stared at him. He stared back. Neither moved. Who was this? Why was he swimming out here, so far? Was he training-

A violet tale whipped behind him. It was the most beautiful thing she'd ever seen. The light was reflected upon each scale, highlighting the color. His fins were translucent, tinting the surface of the pier a child's lavender.

A merman. A very, very, very, very, very handsome... handsome merman. His hair was short and a lovely shade of blonde, face square and adorable, smile lines from his sudden grin... And glistening wet torso. Made her feel a little wet herself.

He held out a hand. She wanted to take it... She did... the castle... it called... She jumped in.

Surprisingly enough, she was able to see. It didn't hurt, either. This merman, whoever he was, was darting across the water faster than her body would allow. At least, in these clothes. She could always take them off... But she needed them. What about when she got back to shore? Joyce couldn't very walk around naked, now could she?

So she managed as best she could, following the merman further out to see. Breathing didn't seem to be a problem. This was a lawless sea, free from even the laws of science. For the most part.

They saw many wonderful, wonderful things. Coral reefs, beautiful sea life, a few sharks, bioluminescent night creatures after the moon bathed the surface of the ocean. Still, her clothes presented a problem.

Her merman was so far ahead, she could barely see him. Joyce wanted to catch up, but... Her dress... shore...

Clint. Suddenly the merman had a name. Clint. And for some reason, this caused the woman to begin her disrobing. Off with the bonnet. The knickers. The gloves. The dress. All of them drifted to the bottom of the sea. Forgotten in the pursuit of... something.

Clint the merman noticed the absence of Joyce, and proceeded to go back for the lovely woman. She was struggling with that damned red corset. Joyce seemed to have barely undone the first lace. Her face was twisted in frustration. Clint gently held her hands.

Allow me, he seemed to say.

Behind her, Clint made short work of the troublesome garment. As it released its final grip on Joyce, she felt a moment of surreality. It was gone. Her body was free. The merman swam to her front. He smiled. Joyce stared.

Suddenly Joyce was locking lips with this merman in her utter nakedness. He stumbled back in the water, even landing on an anemone, but was happy to reciprocate. His lips were soft, firm and pressing hers damn near flat. Joyce liked the feeling. Her bare legs wrapped around his scaled waist, while Clints hands meandered down her spine.

She shivered. Joyce's tongue teased the lining of her mermans' lips. He took that as invitation to slip his own into her mouth. Joyce's eyes widened in surprise. She had her hands feeling the firm muscles in his back- God his arms were like steel.

Joyce waited for things to progress, she tried to urge some excitement between his legs- oh.

And there was the basic anatomical difference that made this fantasy so damn ludicrous. Where there should be a set of legs and some male genitalia, there was that entrancing tail.

Clint saw this problem, noticed it as she gyrated on his lap, and smiled. With Joyce still wrapped around him like an accessory, Clint swam into the night.

Soon they were at an island. Clint took Joyce ashore. She lay on her back, eyes on the moon. Clint was on top of her. Now how was this going to help- OH.

All those violet scales transformed, disappeared into human skin. Legs. Joyce spread her own, allowing Clint his access. He kissed her more, tongue tasting like saltwater. Joyce felt the moist rush between her legs. Clint positioned himself right over her entrance. She felt the tip against it.

Joyce woke up, still moist and throbbing and filled with embarrassment. Luckily real Clint was still asleep. This dream was a significant mark to Joyce, for two very important reasons.

One: Obviously this was something she had to dissect the meaning of, and just how much it means. She definitely had to reevaluate some feelings.

Two: This was the first time since... that night... that Joyce hadn't dreamed of what she had done. Or not done.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: HOPE YOU ALL ENJOYED! THANKS FOR READING AND SUPPORTING THE STORY!


	15. Chapter 15

Joyce was surprised to find that she was the first one up. Looking to the window, she saw it was still dark. The little clock in the middle of the bed said it was about 5:00. Bleh. She still had plenty of time. Joyce lazily rolled onto her left side.

Joyce was too put of it to really register anything that happened before this moment. Still in her half asleep stage. Or more... three quarters asleep. Joyce was tried, some dream she had last night startled her. What dream? Huh... this bed was really comfy. She was on the verge of sleep, except for one. Tiny. Annoyance.

She REALLY needed to pee.

But she didn't want to move. It's so nice and warm here... ugh. Her bladder was cussing her out.

Silently groaning, the woman stood. It was too dark to see much, and the air conditioner was freezing cold. Even in her long sleeves, Joyce was shivering. Oh how she hated mornings like this.

Joyce shuffled through the dark, unfamiliar room, sticking out her arms and trying to find the bathroom door. On the way, she went through the ever so important ritual of banging her big toe on a chair leg.

She hissed, but finally made it to her destination. The light burned her eyes, and when she caught sight of the mirror...

"Gah!"

It was a quiet gasp of horror, but it jolted Joyce out of her half asleep state... partially. For a second... She almost... She almost...

Joyce sighed. She used the bathroom, as she planned, and turned off the light as she left.

But walking back into the main part of the hotel room, Joyce became suddenly aware that she wasn't the only one awake. Clint was sitting up in the bed, back turned to her. And... What the Hell?

"Clint... What are you doing?"

"Trying to put on this damn robe... I can't... pain in the ass..." He mumbled.

"Clint, that's the blanket."

He stopped. "Oh." The assassin moved his arms around under the fabric. "That explains a lot."

Joyce smiled. He was half asleep too. She was actually kind of relieved by that fact. Even the big, bad assassin can fall prey to the groggy morning monster. Plus, it was really cute.

"Why are you up? It's only like.. 5:05. We don't have to be up till 6:30."

He looked at the clock. "Ooooohhh."

"Did I wake you up?"

"No, no. It's a force of habit... military and all..."

"Got it, got it. Are we going back to bed?"

"...Yes. Yes, let's do that."

* * *

><p>When it really time to get up, the two immediately got to work. Clint bathed while Joyce put on her uniform. Black skirt, long sleeved black undershirt, white collared shirt over that, and little white sneakers. She then slipped her little hand gun under the skirt, into a little holster around her thigh.<p>

Not the most comfortable, but Joyce felt a lot safer.

By the time she got back from the breakfast bar with waffles and coffee, Clint was ready to go. Same uniform... except pants instead of a skirt. Of course.

He smiled brightly.

"You approve?" She asked, holding out her tray of goodies.

"Yes. Waffles are fucking amazing."

"... I love that you had to add the word "fucking" to a statement about waffles."

He shrugged. "Living dangerously."

Joyce snorted.

The two ate, then caught their ride to the school. It was a large building, surrounded by the cars of the students and teachers. Joyce and Clint walked side by side up to the entrance.

Now it was as as simple as a trip down the hall, make a left, hang a right, groan and realize it's the other way around, no wait, the first time was correct, God damn it!

Finally they made it to their classroom. It was a small class, only about fifteen people, but that wasn't too much of a problem. They sat down next to one another, Joyce taking notes then translating them for Clint. Their textbooks were handed out, and she helped him with that, too. And he actually got the gist of it!

He was so glad he brought her along. Despite the embarrassments, this was a good idea. Joyce was a fantastic companion. He smiled at her from his desk. Her black hair was falling wildly over her face, her blue eyes fixated on the teacher and his lessons. Wait... they faltered. Her attention was on Clint. For a moment he feared she'd tell him sternly to pay attention to the class, like Natasha would probably do. But she didn't. Joyce smiled back.

But suddenly her eyes were drawn away. The teacher was saying something. She wrote it down.

"Ah." She said.

"What?" Clint asked. "What'd he say?"

"It appears we're having our first wine tasting test at the end of the week. We'll be going to our first winery on Friday."

Clint nodded. "Good. Can't wait to get this show on the road."

"Me neither."

* * *

><p>The bus ride wasn't long, at least this time. Only about half an hour. Joyce and Clint sat next to one another in the back, basically keeping to themselves. They'd gone over what was going to happen at the hotel.<p>

The thing was, they knew where to look. The wine cellar. That was where the weapons were supposedly hidden. There would be a trap door disguised into the wood flooring, tricking the eye. Or a door behind the wine racks, activated by a hidden weight trigger.

Easy peasy, except of course the task of sneaking away from the class. And the limited time. And the issue of getting caught.

Clint was skilled in missions like this. Joyce was not. He had explained that she needed to follow his lead, and play along with whatever he said if they were exposed. Wrong moves could end in death. He couldn't have that. Not with her. She understood her part completely. French language was Joyce's speciality. This was all Clint. Joyce wasn't about to argue with a trained spy. Whatever he did or said from this moment on, as far as the mission was concerned, goes. She trusted him to keep her safe. To keep her alive.

Joyce looked up at him, and looked back down. Their faces were serious, solemn.

As the bus came to a stop, the group exited. The winery was relatively small, only a single building with a shed in the distance. Around it were many rows of grapevines planted into the soil. It looked like something out of a painting.

Inside there was a woman waiting at the front desk. She was going to be their guide around the winery.

All the students, including the two undercover spies, were carrying notepads for, well... taking notes. As usual, Joyce had to translate everything for her companion, which was making things a bit difficult, but not unbearably so. She didn't mind, she was happy that he allowed her to do this with him. Now, the steel butterflies Joyce felt in her stomach, that wasn't as easy to deal with.

Despite the scenery, the fact that this was a very good class to be taking, and the safety Joyce felt with Clint... the reality of the situation wouldn't leave her be. This was a government mission. A dangerous one. She could be killed. Joyce wasn't ready to die...

Another little realization kicked in, but that wasn't as important to the situation. She could think about the consequences of her perspectives later.

Now it was tasting time. Both Joyce and Clint were sure they'd fail this test, being distracted so much. But... no. They did fine. Discerning between moderately aged and newly produced wine, the key differences between white and red wine... apart from color, of course. The tests would get more difficult, but that wasn't too much of a problem.

Now it was time for the real task at hand.

After the test, the group was to tour the winery. Joyce and Clint were sure to get to their location after they'd already seen the cellar. Not like they got the chance to REALLY explore the first time around.

Making sure there was nobody down the hall, the two quietly made their way back the way they came. The door they were looking for was way in the back, the end of a narrow hallway. Clint checked every few seconds to make sure they weren't being followed. Joyce's heart was pounding.

Finally at their destination, the two snuck inside.

Joyce breathed a heavy sigh.

"Don't get too comfortable, we've not out of the woods yet."

"I know. So, where do I start looking?"

"You take the right wall, I'll try the floor. You just move the bottle, maybe pull it out a bit, and if something happens... Well... You found it."

"Got it." She confirmed.

She tried to be quiet as she handled the glass objects, tried to be quick. But with shaking hands beneath her gloves and a pounding heart, this was more difficult than she intended. So Joyce focused on regulating her breath, tried to remember that there was somebody highly trained just a foot or so away.

"Floors' clean. I'm going to start on the left wall."

Joyce nodded. She was on the fifth row down, she'd started at the top and worked her down, left to right. After this, three more rows. And then the back wall. But it was much smaller, so that was a small relief.

Okay, two rows. She looked at Clint. He was on the fourth row up. He'd started the other way, it seemed. Okay, one row. Joyce was no less calm. Steady breath. Steady breath.

"Okay... nothing on this wall. Now the back."

Clint moved to the final wall. Joyce was a little relieved. The sooner they got out of here, the better.

She suddenly stopped. Clint stopped. Voices.

"They're looking for us." Joyce whispered. "We're leaving soon."

She looked up at her companion, terrified. Clint helped her to her feet.

"What do we do? I think they're coming this way."

He put a finger to his lips. She nodded. Clint thought. Their lives were on the line. They needed to find a convincing excuse or else... Joyce...

Shit. Shit. Shit.

Clint heard the the footsteps. She was right. They were coming this way. He looked down at her. Her eyes read terror. She was depending upon his ability to think fast. And, as the doorknob turned, he did.

Without a word, he grabbed Joyce, and kissed her.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I'M REALLY SORRY FOR THE LACK OF UPDATES LATELY! I'VE BEEN TRYING TO FIGURE OUT HOW TO WRITE THIS CHAPTER. IT WAS DIFFICULT, BUT I HAD A LOT OF FUN WITH IT. HOPE YOU ALL ENJOYED! THANKS FOR READING AND SUPPORTING! ^^


	16. Chapter 16

Clint and Joyce rode silently on the bus, making their way back to the hotel. Not like that was an unusual thing for them. Their studying... working... could be rather exhausting, both emotionally and physically, so a quiet ride back was to be expected. Except that during this particular ride, the atmosphere had changed dramatically from the norm.

It was awkward.

Really awkward.

Hawkward, Joyce thought to herself. She would've smiled had it not been for this particular situation.

Back in the wine cellar, Clint had indeed kissed her. He kissed her roughly, out of fear and out of necessity. He had even pulled Joyce against him, one hand placed upon the small of her back. She was only dimly aware of the fact that he was doing this as a means of escaping suspicion. Her body was still in the throes of an adrenaline rush, and her mind was reeling with the sudden turn of events. She figured it wouldn't hurt to sneak her hands up on his shoulders, feel the muscles working beneath them. Maybe open her mouth just a bit, for good measure. Joyce's hands had begun to move downward when the door was opened.

The two pulled apart immediately, faces flushed and spit dripping from their respective mouths. The people who had opened the door were a couple of their classmates, who had been sent to look for them. Joyce and Clint waved at them, guilty little smiles adding to their little deception.

Apparently they were rather convincing.

They only received a bit of teasing and were escorted to the bus.

Now here they were. Joyce was hoping that Clint hadn't noticed what had happened with her, how she began to lose herself. Oh, that would be very bad, if he did... and for many, many reasons. Among which were the compromising of the mission... and their friendship. She tried to think of a way to explain how she reacted. Well... if he noticed, anyway. She wasn't sure if he had. She herself was a little unsure of what had happened, but Joyce knew there was something more than fear in that response.

Clint wasn't sure either. He was debating whether or not Joyce's immediate response was a genuine sexual response or just a fear-driven effort to put on a good show for whoever opened the door. He decided, for the moment, to count it as the latter. It was just... easier. And besides, even if she HAD truly responded, how could he be sure it wasn't simply because of the adrenaline pumping through her at the time? That could be just as plausible, even logical. Maybe it was a bit of both? Fear and adrenaline?

He decided to go with that.

* * *

><p>They got back to the hotel, for which both Joyce and Clint had been very grateful. The two students who had caught them winked and gave them a thumbs up as they made their way off, and it made both of them a tad uncomfortable.<p>

When they got into the room, away from prying eyes and tuned-in ears, Joyce decided to try and help relieve the tension by starting a conversation.

"Holy hell was that a close call." She said, emphasizing that statement with a tiny nervous laugh.

"I know, right?" Clint replied. "I encounter those a lot."

Joyce shuddered at the implications of that statement, all the near-death situations he'd probably faced. But she pushed that aside, trying to keep the conversation going in the right direction.

"That why you're so good at thinking on your feet?"

Clint nodded. "Yep. I had to think of a good excuse."

"And what an excuse it was! That was really smart of you."

"Thanks."

"Welcome." Joyce said, smiling.

"I'm really glad that worked." He said.

Clint didn't have much of a backup plan, aside from resorting to some form of violence. That would've put Joyce in even more danger... and of course it'd fuck up the whole mission. So he was incredibly glad his last second idea panned out.

"We're quite the actors, ay Clint?"

Joyce thought that was the best way to brush off most of the awkwardness. It was just acting, pretending in order to keep themselves from getting killed. Hopefully her tone was convincing.

"We are indeed."

"Academy award winning caliber actors."

Clint chuckled.

"Oscar winning?"

"Oh absolutely. If there was an category for making out with your friends in order to stay alive, we'd win, hands down. But sadly that probably will never be a thing." Joyce sighed, pouting out her bottom lip in a mock-disappointment. "No Oscars for us."

"Well, look on the bright side." Clint said. He was trying just as hard to get rid of the uncomfortable atmosphere. "We have exactly the same number of Oscars as Leonardo DeCaprio."

Joyce laughed. "Ain't that the truth!"

The two plopped down on their respective beds. It was silent for a time, and it was a little less uncomfortable. Clint was thinking over what had happened, and he considered the fact that they were going to be searching another cellar next week. And the week after. For quite a few weeks, actually. And what would happen if they got into another situation like the one today?

Clint figured that the two classmates had probably already begun spreading rumors about his and Joyce's assumed sexual escapades. This, in a way, could work to their advantage. People would assume nothing of them being gone, most likely. Oh, they're just off having a bit of fun, no harm. Nothing suspicious. A perceived relationship would be an excellent excuse to be alone together. It was almost a golden ticket of excuses.

This, well... meant that they'd probably have to get into situations like the one today. And they would probably have to act like a love-struck couple. Adding to the act, so to speak.

It seemed all well and good on paper. There was only thing that needed to be done.

"Joyce?" Clint asked.

"Yeah?"

"I need you to pretend to be my girlfriend."

AUTHORS NOTE: I AM SO. SO. SO. SORRY. I KNOW IT'S BEEN MONTHS SINCE I'VE UPDATED, AND THIS ISN'T EXACTLY A GREAT CHAPTER, BUT I'VE BEEN HAVING A BIT OF WRITERS BLOCK. ALSO I TOOK A BREAK FROM FANFICTION TO FINISH MY NOVEL PERCEPTION, WHICH IS NOW A KINDLE E-BOOK! I MENTIONED THIS FACT IN A DIFFERENT FANFICTION STORY, BUT SOME OF YOU MIGHT NOT KNOW, SO I'M RESTATING IT.

ANYWAY, THANK YOU SO SO MUCH FOR READING AND SUPPORTING!


	17. Chapter 17

The initial shock on her face was actually rather comical, maybe even adorable. The wide eyes, slightly open mouth, single raised eyebrow... Clint smiled.

"I... What?" Joyce struggled to ask a coherent question.

"I need you to pretend-"

She held a hand up. The agent closed his mouth. He had a moment where he was sure he'd accidentally offended her or scared her off. Perhaps after what'd just transpired, that was a bit too much. Clint realized that just because in HIS mind it was perfectly logical, it definitely didn't mean it was the same for Joyce.

"I heard ya, Clint." She chuckled. "I think some context in necessary is all."

Clint breathed a sigh of relief.

"Why do you want me to pretend to be your girlfriend?"

Joyce couldn't help but equate this to some bad teen romance movie. He was the slick guy "dating" his best friend to get back at his bitchy ex-girlfriend, or something of the like. But he's actually doing it because he secretly wants to date her for real and is covering it up. Then, true to form, she ends up falling for him and they have the gushy kiss and whatnot.

She knew full well and good that Clint probably had a perfectly understandable and reasonable explanation, but she couldn't help but entertain the thought that he had an ulterior motive similar to that of the slick movie guy. Of course they kind of already had the kiss.

"So people already think we're together, right?"

"Oh Yeah, they think we're joined at the hip. In more ways than one."

"Exactly. So they wouldn't really much of it if we were to... I don't know... slip off somewhere?"

"I think I'm catching your drift, Clint."

He nodded. "But that means we're going to have to do some more of that Oscar worthy acting. And by some..."

"You mean a lot." Joyce finished.

"Yeah. We'll probably have to get in a lot more situations like the one today."

Joyce nodded.

"Do you think you're up for it?" He asked.

She knew what he meant by that. Did she have the ability to not get attached to him in that way? Could she do this without it becoming complicated? Joyce had a feeling the answer was not too promising, all things considered. Joyce was becoming increasingly aware that she felt... something... for Clint.

But she still had her own reasons for keeping her distance in that regard. Her eyes briefly drifted to her arms, covered by long sleeves. She remembered she said to Coulson how she'd think about telling him, but for now she'd put that on hold. Joyce would use it as motivation to not get attached. For the sake of the mission.

And if it didn't work, well... She could deal with it then.

"Yeah, sure." She answered.

* * *

><p>Playing the love-struck couple was rather easy. At least, the mechanics of it were. Hold hands, nuzzle one another, playfully tease one another, gaze into each others eyes on the bus, and sloppily make out. Just a young couple taking a class together in France. Maybe they would get married one day. Who knew, really.<p>

From the outside, it was all innocent and sweet. But on the inside, Joyce and Clint were on edge every minute of the way.

Would they get caught? Was everything going to go to hell? Would the guise not be enough to disguise their true intentions? What would they do if it failed?

Joyce and Clint pushed all these negative, frightful thoughts from their minds as they pulled bottles out of their holders for the fifth time, trying to find a lever. It didn't seem to get any easier, even with the experience and golden excuse. Anxiety racks the brain and corrupts even the most steady hands.

Joyce was on the sixth row, twelfth bottle when she felt it. The weight. The rumbling. Her eyes widened.

"Clint." She whispered.

He turned and saw the hidden door open.

"You found it."

Joyce couldn't take her eyes off it. There they were. The weapons. Some looked bigger than HER. Others were smaller, nuclear powered most likely. Some were rockets. Some were guns. But the ones that really frightened her were the ones that were looked like... needles. Test tubes. All filled with a strange blue liquid. Joyce tried not to start panicking at the thought of what she was looking at.

"What do I do now?"

"Put the bottle back. Get in position. I'll call it in when we're at base."

She did so quickly.

In an instant, it seemed to Clint, the bottle was back, the door was closed, and Joyce had her lips on his. She did this more out of fear than anything, he knew, but he was still impressed.

A part of him thought she might make one hell of an agent one day, being such a quick learner. But Clint retracted that thought immediately. He couldn't imagine her doing this for a living, being in danger constantly. He couldn't take it.

His Joyce? No, no.

Once the coast was clear, the two scrambled back to the bus and headed back to the hotel. Clint held Joyce's hand tightly on the ride back.

Once safely in their room, Clint contacted SHIELD, well, more specifically Coulson. Had him on a private phone line. Clint explained how proud of Joyce he was for finding the weapons vault. She smiled.

Coulson congratulated them.

"Job well done, both of you."

"Thanks, sir." Clint said.

"Now, you two need to stay in France. Finish your class. Check to see if any other wineries are dirty."

"Can do." Joyce said.

"Great. Thank you for all your hard work. We'll keep you updated."

"We'll do the same." Clint replied, before hanging up.

"Wow." Joyce said.

"Crazy, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"How did it feel, busting that place?" Clint asked.

Joyce paused for a moment. She remembered the fear vividly, but now that she was away, another feeling popped up.

"It felt... it feels... relieving. Almost therapeutic."

Like by getting rid of something so evil, so VILE, she was washing away a bit of her own sin. She felt, for the first time, a bit of guilt roll off her back. It was incredible.

Was this what it was like for Clint?

"Like you helped rid the world of a bit of evil? Like a hero?"

"Yeah." She said.

It wasn't like that, though. She didn't want to correct him for fear of the conversation that might accompany that, but she definitely felt it. Not like a hero.

Like a normal person. A good person.

Clint saw the look on her face change to something he'd never seen before on her, but was all too familiar with himself. There was a look of bliss, relief from severe pain. The feeling of absolving a wrong. He'd felt like this sometimes since the New York incident. It came in brief flashes, after giving food to a homeless person or giving a tip to an obviously struggling waitress. He immediately pushed it down, saying he didn't deserve relief.

But seeingit on her face, Joyce's face... it concerned him. What could such a sweet, joyful woman possibly need relief from? Clint immediately scolded himself for his own stupidity.

Of course she had things in her past she felt guilty for. Everyone on this little blue dot, and most likely beyond, did. To think otherwise was beyond naive, it was idiotic.

But... to see her mirror his expression of THAT relief... made him wonder what it was exactly she was trying to gain forgiveness for.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I'M SO SORRY GUYS. I REALLY AM. I KNOW IT' BEEN FOREVER, BUT I'M NOT GIVING UP ON THIS STORY. I HOPE YOU ALL ENJOYED THE CHAPTER. THANKS FOR READING AND SUPPORTING. AND DEALING WITH MY HORRID UPDATE SCHEDULE.


	18. Chapter 18

The final bottle was put back into place and the two exited the cellar. It was done. It was finally, completely done. The two ran giddily to the bus and clutched at one another like children after a prank. Joyce and Clint had completed their mission, a total of three dirty wineries exposed. It was a wonderful feeling. Joyce had felt more guilt leave her in these few weeks than in all the years she'd dealt with it. It was still there, lurking in the back of her psyche, but this had relieved some of the nightmares.

Clint was just happy to see Joyce so cheerful and confident. This mission had done wonders for her, and he was glad she was able to come along. And, of course, he was extremely glad that his friend was so reliable and trustworthy in a high-stress situation. As an agent, that was a wonderful trait to find in a companion. All in all, this had been a resounding success.

* * *

><p>"So now that the mission is completed, when do you plan on having us come back to the states?" Clint asked Coulson.<p>

"In four days. We'll send somebody to pick you up from your current hotel. You've both done a wonderful job, and we'd like to thank you two by giving you a few days of paid vacation. Relax, enjoy yourselves. Have some wine, if you're not sick of it by now."

Clint had a sneaking suspicion that Coulson was trying, in his own Coulson-y way, to get him and Joyce together. Which, in a way, Clint could appreciate. Coulson was more than an S.O. to him, he was a long-time friend. He was just trying to be that in this case, a good friend. Even if his attempt was misguided. Clint may have begun to feel something for Joyce, but she still wasn't his certainty.

"Thank you, Agent Coulson." Joyce said.

"You're very welcome, Ms. Rivers. Enjoy your vacation. I'll see you both in a few days."

And with that, the conversation ended. It was just Joyce and Clint, alone in a shared hotel room. They looked at one another, both smiling. Joyce was rather pleased with this turn of events. She had four straight days to spend with Clint, in one of the most romantic countries around, with no distractions. Yes, she'd come to realize that her efforts to not get romantically attached to Clint were failing. Some part of her had a feeling, ever since the beginning of their "relationship", that it was heading down this path. He already had her certainty, and that kind of felt like that path was being lined with red carpet. And, as she'd promised herself, she was going to deal with it.

Now that there was no mission, and no need for a fake romance, she could determine the true nature of Clint's emotions. Had he begun to feel the same way about her? She wouldn't blame him if he didn't, because originally the agreement was simply to act for the sake of avoiding suspicion. Part of Joyce was hoping for this, in fact. It would make life easier. She wouldn't have to tell him her secret if he didn't feel that way. But she was becoming more and more aware that he would have to find out eventually, anyway. He was her closest friend, even without her feelings for him.

"What do you want to do on this 'vacation'?" Joyce asked.

Clint shrugged.

"I don't know. What's there to do?"

Joyce paused for a minute, thinking. "There are a lot of things to do. We could go out and explore the little town near us, take in some local culture. Maybe buy some touristy shit. We could take a hike into the hills, if you're feeling outdoorsy, and have a picnic. You know, it all depends on what we're up for."

"... I hear there's a nude beach around here."

"I am not up for that." Joyce replied.

Clint chuckled. "I'm joking, Joyce. Let's do that taking in culture thing. Go out and punch a mime."

His companion laughed. "I'd like that."

* * *

><p>They did not, in fact, punch any mimes. They simply went out to a tiny restaurant not too dissimilar to the one they ate at in New York. They sat outside, the little round table decorated by a single flickering candle. Around them were cobblestone streets and little shops filled with locally made clothing and furniture. It was so quaint and innocent it almost made them suspicious. But Clint and Joyce knew it was just how things were in the South of France.<p>

"So how does the food measure up?" Clint asked. "You know, to the other place?"

Joyce smiled. "As much as I love my little slice of France in New York, this stuff puts it all to shame. I kinda wish we could just drag this whole restaurant back to my apartment. I don't know how it would fit, but I'd make it work."

"If that were the case, I might just have to move in."

They both laughed.

"God, I'm a bit sad that we're going back to New York in a few days." Joyce said.

"I mean, you know, we could always come back some day."

"Come back?"

"Yeah. If there's ever another mission here, I'd need you as my translator." Clint said, taking a bite of food.

Joyce sighed. "Well let's hope, I suppose."

Clint paused. "Or... you know... if I get some time off, we could come back just on a vacation."

"Just you and me?" Joyce asked, surprised.

He nodded. "Yeah. Just you and me."

Joyce cocked her head to the side. Was this a sign? It sounded like it, but... well... she couldn't be sure. She hadn't had too much experience with guys actually being flirty towards her, aside from the perverted remarks from her old boss. She decided to test the waters a bit.

"Isn't that sort of a... couples thing?"

A bit on the nose, but a reasonable question, she thought.

Clint stopped eating, looking at the lovely woman across the table. She was staring at him with an expression that read anticipation. It was pretty obvious what she meant by that. He tried to think of how he should respond. She was an amazing woman, no doubt, and they clicked on a level he'd never really clicked with somebody before. Not even Natasha. But that certainty. Should he... take a chance, go against what he's always been searching for? He'd known people who'd tried that, and said that it was better to end up with somebody who's not quite right for them than end up alone. But it didn't feel as if Joyce wasn't quite right for him.

He wanted to answer the question in a way that didn't come across as "no" but didn't want to say "yes" outright either.

"Usually, yeah." Was what he came up with. "It all depends on the people."

He felt it was casual, and could be read either way. If she didn't want to press it, he wouldn't press it.

She didn't press it.

"Well... okay. It'll be a nice thing to look forward to. Thanks for bringing me out here, Clint."

"You're welcome."

The two continued eating, trying to ignore the tension in the air.

**Authors Note: I apologize again for this horrid update schedule. I'm not giving up on this story! Thank you for reading and supporting! I hope you all enjoyed this one!**


	19. Chapter 19

**Okay, so I decided to write this next chapter. You all have been so patient with me, so I figured a double update was in order! Also, fair warning, this is the chapter where Joyce reveals her secret. It's going to get VERY heavy with the subject matter, so proceed with caution. **

These last two days of their vacation had felt like a delicate and precise dance. Joyce gave her hints about her intensions, Clint gave vague but polite responses, and they both tried to read how the other was reacting. While Clint had a better understanding of Joyce's feelings than she did his, simply because of his years of practice with reading people, he couldn't quite understand some of her responses. Whenever he gave his vague "oh it depends", "you never know, I guess" answers, she didn't seem to press the matter. She pulled away. It seemed a bit unlike her usual, rather outgoing self.

He had noticed one little trend with her, a nervous tick he might call it. Whenever she made her move, Joyce would tug on the base of her sleeves, grasping each in her respective hands. He assumed this was her way of dealing with tension, using her clothing as makeshift stress balls. But he still didn't see why she was afraid to press the matter. Of course he was a somewhat relieved, seeing as he didn't technically know what he would do if she DID respond. That didn't make her nervousness any less out of the ordinary.

Joyce herself was beginning to get frustrated. She was really hating how vague Clint was being with her. She didn't know how to read his responses, and it made her nervous. She wondered if maybe he had seen something, or found out what she'd been hiding, without her knowledge. Could that be why he was pulling away when she hinted at her feelings?

Or was it something else? Was it his certainty, maybe? She didn't know what it was, of course, but maybe it was something easily discernible, like hers was. If that was the case, she could completely understand. Would Joyce be disappointed? Definitely. But if they weren't a match, they weren't a match. Simple as that. But if he didn't TALK to her...

Joyce sighed under her breath. They were taking a walk through the hills. The golden sun was reflecting off of the metal roof of a nearby farm, and the air smelled of summer flowers. God, it was beautiful. It was something one would read about in a novel, or a travel brochure. And yet, here they were, unable to fully enjoy themselves. They couldn't talk too much, it felt too... unnatural, fake. It was almost unbearable. They only had two days left before they got back to New York, and who knew how busy they'd both be once they got back!

It was at this point Joyce realized she was going to have to throw the monkey wrench into this cycle of frustration and tension. Even though it was going to be difficult, and it was going to change the dynamic of things in a big way... Joyce had to open up to Clint. He deserved to know if she was going to be spilling her guts.

* * *

><p>It was almost sunset when they got back to the hotel. They'd had an early dinner at a little deli, and decided to have a night in. Joyce had been on edge this whole afternoon. She'd made up her mind to tell Clint the truth, and doubts had been eating at her mind. What would he say? How would he feel? Would he think she had too much baggage to date, or even be friends with? Would he cancel the vacation? Would he become paranoid and overprotective? So many ways to go with this!<p>

Clint, of course, had taken notice. Joyce seemed... distracted, and even more nervous than usual. She'd been constantly tugging at her sleeves, and seemed far too quiet. He was worried about what this meant. Was she going to finally make a big move, one that he couldn't just dismiss with a casual statement? What was he going to say to her if she asked about them being a couple?

They both sat in silence for about an hour, pretending to watch the television, when Joyce finally decided to speak up.

"... Clint?" She asked, timidly.

"Yes, Joyce?"

She sighed. "I need to talk to you about something."

Oh dear, he thought. This was it. Well he supposed it was best to go ahead and talk now. It was better than what they'd been doing for the past couple days.

"What do you need to talk to me about?"

Joyce gulped, then sat up on her bed.

"I... I really don't know how to start. I've never really had this conversation before."

Clint paused. "Just... uh... go when you feel ready to start."

She smiled. "Thank you."

He saw as her breathing got a little more rapid, and she was biting her lip. Jeez, she was really nervous about this. He wanted to ease her worrying, wanted to make her feel comfortable. Even if he didn't quite know how he was going to respond to her, Clint didn't want to see her fret like this. He got up and sat beside her, wrapping an arm around her.

"It's okay, Joyce."

Clint felt her shake.

"Clint... there's something I haven't told you about myself."

His eyebrows raised a bit. This wasn't what he was expecting to hear. But he was prepared to listen.

"Go on."

She sighed. "I'm really sorry I haven't told you sooner, but I haven't exactly gotten kind responses in the past. It's something I'm really ashamed of."

"... What... what is it, Joyce? You can tell me."

She didn't speak for several minutes. Clint waited patiently.

"You know... how I always wear long sleeves?"

"I mean, yeah, I suppose. I always assumed you were cold." Clint replied.

She chuckled, but it sounded sad. "That isn't the reason."

"Well what is it, then?"

"I'm trying to work up the courage to tell you that."

She stood up and began to pace. This was obviously something big, something bigger than her feelings for him. Or perhaps it was because of her feelings that she was saying this. Joyce stopped, and took a deep breath.

"Okay. I'm ready."

Clint watched as Joyce grasped the base of one sleeve, her hands shaking almost violently with anxiety. She closed her eyes, squeezing them shut, and pulled the sleeve up to her elbow. Then the other. Eyes still shut, she held out her bare arms for him to see. He felt the blood rush out of his face, and a sickening sense of vertigo made him queasy. How could this be? Joyce... but... but... she was so... happy all the time.

Along each of her arms, all the way up to the elbows, there was a series of horrid, jagged scars. Some of them were diagonal, and barely visible. They were probably the oldest. But she had a few rows of vertical ones, ones that were raised up above her skin and shiny. Those were the ones that... those were the ones that were lethal. All of them were years old, he could tell, but it was obvious that there was more than one attempt.

His Joyce, his sweet Joyce, had tried to kill herself. Several times.

**Author's Note: Thank you all for reading! I hope you all enjoyed this chapter, despite this heavy subject. Please let me know what you think, I want to handle this subject with all the respect and care that it deserves. **


	20. Announcement

Hey readers! I know it's been a while, and for that I'm very sorry. I've been lacking inspiration and drive to continue this story, and I can't force myself to write something when it's just for fun. Not only that, but I've been busy with quite a bit. I'm working on two novels at the moment, and I have a lot of college/financial aid business that I've had to attend to. So, even though you've probably guessed this by now, I'm putting this story on hiatus. I cannot say when or if I will come back to it, but I am putting this story on hold for now. I figured I owed everyone an explanation, at least.

There is a fanfiction I'm working on currently that I'm enjoying, but I cannot say how many of you will be interested.


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